#he is a caring individual with a heart of steel and even though you be invitment of punk if he still has a knick knack for sewing things

[hauntingmiser]

MERMAY DAY XXIII

Introducing the lion merseal that bodied several amounts of dolphins.....

Kanji tatsumi !!!!

Fun fact : kanji has been in the lower part of the sea ever since he was a kid and has been a mamas boy due to his dad died to mysterious circumstances he's been trying to find out who killed his father for his mother's sake and when he got kidnapped in the TV world he fist fighted shadows and shadows feared him all because he was punching them left and right without no persona

and when this man was rescued he hugged yu and yosuke and said thank you to them because he got tired of killing shadows with his bare hands also he joined the investigation team and has been the greatest homie and the brawn of the team

and ever since the fog has been rising he's been trying to find a way to prevent it by using empty metal barrels to keep the fog contaminate and it somehow worked out a little bit but he still needed some more help so it's a good thing nato confronted him and wanted to help out of the situation he's in

so they both did try and scoop up some crystals with the middle barrels with protection against the radiation-like crystals and they sealed with metal top containers it worked by it basically reduced to like a little bit of fog and his area but it started to grow when he was asleep really fast and he woke up and he swam to get away from the fog

until he bumps into yu again and he however never told him much but told him about how he didn't get contaminated with the cursed crystals of "mother nature" all because he was wearing protective gear that will probably be important later

yu was kind of surprised and was curious but he congratulate him on trying to get rid of the crystals that were growing the fog

no matter how kanji tries help out he always feared all because of his strength and his aggressiveness but due to all this his feminine side shows no bounds,when he's alone he likes stitching seaweed together into baskets because he thought it was kinda pretty and he has been doing it when no one is around

[celesteskingdom]

Character Rambles Part 2

Logan! My second favorite. There's a special place in my heart reserved for shy introverts. Believe me when I say I was more than gleeful to find out how there were layers to this astronomy dork! Yes, he's a nerd. Yes, he's shy. Yes, he's bullied. But is he not simple? Absolutely not! He learnt how to shoot a rifle with great accuracy! He manages to steel his nerves in order to get things done.

He learned self-defense to help him with his bullies. I don't believe that violence is always the answer, but it is necessary at times. Much of the time, actions speak louder than words. His bullies wouldn't have left him alone, or lessened their bullying, if he tried to reason it out with them. This is coming from someone that has been bullied; some bullies just don't do words. While I've never retaliated with violence, I can understand why Logan did. He was quite literally just defending himself.

He's intelligent too. He strikes me as an anxious person but he pushes through that. And that? That takes guts. There's not much known about his backstory but I'm sure we'd all love to know more!

The way he's taken all of this in stride is impressive. The way they all have taken this in stride is impressive.

Logan, though? I didn't think this was how he would've been given character development. I'm pleasantly surprised by the route Red took!

Taylor! She holds my heart dearly. The way she explicitly cares for all of them says so about her. Even in the backgrounds of panels where the focus isn't on her, you can clearly grasp her kindness and sweetness. The way she's grown as a character is just. Wow. To me. She's so mentally and emotionally strong. She's good at keeping them together and getting them to cooperate with one another.

The way she's keeping herself together too! She's does mechanics too? That's so cool! A very sweet and caring character that knows her worth, and how to keep the team together.

Tylerrrr! Hello, jock! Now..where do I even begin with him? Surface level, he's definitely a jerk. In depth, still a jerk but with layers. Yeah, he can be very brash and harsh at times but can you blame him? At one point did either of the twins have a regular childhood? All he's trying to do is keep his sister safe and keep himself safe too. And yet, he's grown fond of the rest of the team to the point he too wants to keep them safe! He sees them as family too.

You can see him growing irritated at Logan's bully. You can see him chilling with the others in the backgrounds of panels. Sure, a lot of the panels have him acting as a jerk or being irritated, so what? Look at his small sighs. Look at how he grows more and more comfortable with the rest of the team.

I love all of them, individually and together as a team. Look out for a post talking about their dynamics sometime soon!

[shivunin]

15 Lines of Dialogue

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

Thank you so much for the tag @dreadfutures! I love this, and it's given me an excuse to comb back through Wander again c: This was honestly a really fun exercise because so much of character voice for me is carried by the context/narrative tone (and Emma especially writes a lot of letters in this fic, which aren't really dialogue).

So - for Emmaera Lavellan (Emma):

“We hear your concerns, ambassador. My advisor and I will discuss it at length, I assure you. Please, feel free to find either of us if you have concerns about the accommodations at Skyhold ahead of the fete.”

“It doesn’t feel like we do, Josie. We already saved the world. Why couldn’t that be enough?” 

"When I’m sitting in those meetings, I think about all the ways I could get away from here without someone noticing. I think about climbing down from the tower, or hiding in the stables until night and taking the dracolisk out."

“Your new owner was a bad man,” she continued, “I’m sorry for that. But if you’ll let me help, I will make sure you’re cared for as long as you stay with me.”

"We didn’t have to put other faces on for each other–when we were alone, we spoke plainly and left behind the facades. So when I tell you he wasn’t the one who put the knife in my chest, believe me: It wasn’t him.”

“It had better be little. I’ve had enough parties in my honor to last a lifetime.” 

"This woman would not know her Maker if he picked her up by the heel and shook her."

"I don’t know. Is there a problem? I’ve heard I can’t do anything myself. Seems like I should be no manner of threat at all to one such as you–who killed a single , individual Venatori three years ago."

"You once saw me throw a fireball into a dragon’s mouth while it had me between its teeth. I think I can manage to walk down a dirty street alone, missing arm or no."

“You’ll see. I’m just - not suited to lounging around this manor and hoping for the best. I have to do something. And if I have nothing to do here–”

“But it would look so dashing. Maybe I want it to heal crooked.”

"Silly choice of metals, gold. All soft and shiny. I’d rather a heart of iron or steel or–ooh, dragon bone would be fantastic. Very durable, dragon bone. Velvet, though–-that would be novel. A heart of velvet: prickly one way and soft the other. Uncomfortably warm in the summer. That fits much better.” 

"If the choice was between forgiveness and moving on–what else could I choose?"

"He knows how to open doors. It hasn’t become a problem yet.”

"Even if you forget someday, this is yours to read as you wish. I thought you should have that, to decide for yourself what you want to know."

Tagging @greypetrel @inquisimer @nightwardenminthara @idolsgf @transprincecaspian @star--nymph @vakarians-babe and you!!

[thriller-roads]

Speedwagon x reader

Have You No Shame?

Speedwagon x reader, gender-neutral

fluff, sexual humor, implied NSFW but not explicit

Having suffered vital injuries, Jonathan Joestar had to spend some time in the local hospital. Thanks to the individual care given to him by Erina Pendleton, he didn’t need to stay there much longer. Heck, he was even able to catch a fainting Erina with his broken arm after barely waking from a coma. That man was practically made of steel, and his noble spirit gained admiration from a certain blonde street thug.

"He should be getting out soon, seeing as his injuries are most likely healed by now," Speedwagon said as he strolled beside you. It was a bit over a week since Jonathan was in the hospital. Speedwagon had also suffered a few injuries, though he assured you it was nothing compared to what Jonathan had gone through. It seemed to be true enough, since Speedwagon himself was pretty much in good shape. He chose to abandon the cane he had, but you still offered him to lean on you if needed.

"Alright Robert, you go check on him. I'm gonna ask the nurses a few questions before heading up there myself. Is that alright with you?"

Speedwagon nodded. "Just fine. Like I said, my leg's doin' better now, so don't worry a bit about it." With that, he headed off down the hall.

A few moments after having a conversation with the nurses, you made your way towards the rooms. You checked the numbers on the doors in search of the one Jonathan was in, only to be met with an out of breath Speedwagon rushing your way. He came to a halt before you. "Y/n, I just witnessed something extraordinary!"

"What are you on about?"

"Jonathan's with Erina, and they're in there shagging! Oh it was truly a sight, doing the deed they were! I saw it all through the crack of the door, though I really wasn't counting on it!” He gestured all over the place, emphasizing each word with enthusiasm as he carried on.

"Mr. Joestar raised his pelvis with incredible speed and such precision, you'd think he was a powerful stallion at that rate! He had Erina up in his big strong arms, with the broad chest of a solid brick wall, all while being ever the gentleman as he thrusted his-"

"Woah woah Robert, slow down!" You cut off the man's rambling with a light tug of the tie. He was known to get a bit carried away with his words at times. "As much as I appreciate your detailed narration, I'd like to have a look at this myself! Which way is it?" Speedwagon shook off his adrenaline to pull you along towards Jonathan's room.

Before you two could reach the room however, you spotted a doctor and nurse at the other end of the hall. By the pace of their steps, it seemed they were also headed for Jonathan's room.

"Blimey! By the looks of it, that nurse and doctor are headed right towards Mr. Joestar's room!" Speedwagon exclaimed.

"Yeah, I can see that," you mumbled. Getting a better look at the doctor in question, you realized you recognized the man. "Wait a minute, that's not just any doctor, that's Erina's father!"

Learning this information troubled Speedwagon further. "Oh god, if they find Jonathan and Erina in there, it would be the embarrassment of the century! Who knows what her father would do."

"Quick, we need to make a distraction!" You frantically urged.

"What sorta distraction?" Speedwagon clutched at his chest momentarily, thinking perhaps faking a heart attack would work.

Your first thought was just to shout nonsense. On second thought, you might be deemed a madman and be put into the nuthouse for doing so. You rummaged at the back of your brain until a brilliant idea hit you. Without any warning, you pushed Speedwagon against the wall. "Y/n? What are you-" You were practically climbing onto him. Then, in a rather loud monotone voice, you said, "OH ROBERT MY LOVE, TAKE ME RIGHT HERE AND NOW!"

Robert's face flushed at your sudden behavior. "WHAT!?"

"OH ROBERT, I WANT YOU SO BADLY! Let us make love!" You made sure to project your voice, all while pressing yourself against the confused man. You wrapped a leg around his torso and held onto him, briefly turning your head to look back. Before Speedwagon could further question you, a voice called out.

"Hey, you two! Just what in god's name do you think you're doing!?" It was the doctor. An appalled expression crossed his features. The distraught nurse beside him had a similar reaction as she screeched out, "What impropriety is this? We're in a hospital, for the love of God!"

Speedwagon was starting to catch on to what you were doing, but that didn't take away his embarrassment. Still, he tried his best to play along. "Uh…OF COURSE MY LOVE, I shall take you HERE AND NOW! Nothing can...subdue my urges!"

Hoping your little act was convincing enough, you took Speedwagon's hand and ran off around the corner. The doctor and nurse chased after you in pursuit, shouting something about having no shame or dignity.

Being somewhat familiar with the hospital's layout, you were lucky enough to come across an open door. You dashed inside and pulled Speedwagon along with you. Speedwagon closed the door carefully so as to not make too much noise. The two of you sat in silence as footsteps approached. Your heart was racing, and it wasn’t just because of the running, or the fear of being found by the doctor and nurse. It was the embarrassment that finally caught up to you. It was the fear of what Speedwagon thought of you after the whole thing.

Your uneasy thoughts were interrupted when you heard a familiar feminine voice added into the mix. “Father! I heard the commotion. What on Earth happened?”

“Erina dear, there you are. We saw a couple of shameless hooligans all over each other just now. It was such preposterous behavior. To think anyone would do such a thing under this roof!”

The entire conversation was carried out not too far from the broom closet, so you and Speedwagon could hear it clearly.

“W-what, really? My, how shameful indeed…” Erina’s voice trailed off. To anyone who wasn’t aware of the events that had transpired, Erina’s statement would’ve seemed perfectly fine. Although in complete darkness, you and Speedwagon glanced at each other from the corner of your eyes, as if calling the lady out on her hypocrisy. She best be thankful she wasn't the so-called 'hooligan' her father had the misfortune of witnessing.

“The fools probably ran out by now, but still, do keep an eye out,” the doctor advised. Erina nodded at her father in understanding. Internally, she was thanking the heavens it wasn’t her and Jonathan he had seen. Although she was curious on who exactly he had seen, she let the matter go for now. After all, she was just moments away from being found out herself. She wasn’t even aware her father would be here today, otherwise she wouldn’t have let her guard down so easily.

“Now Erina, you’ve been looking after Mr. Jonathan Joestar, yes?” Erina was startled by the mention of her lover's name, but nodded quickly in response.

Her father didn’t seem to suspect a thing. "Good. I was just on my way to check on his condition myself, so let us carry on now.” The sound of their voices and footsteps soon faded. Once you were in the clear, you and Speedwagon let out shared sighs of relief.

“Bloody hell, that was close. Now let’s get the hell out of here.” Speedwagon stood to open the door. When he turned the knob however, it didn’t budge. He tried again. Shaking the door, still nothing. “Blazes! This damn thing won’t budge. It appears we’ve locked ourselves in.”

You groaned in frustration. “What? How fortunate…” You tried feeling around the room, and ended up finding a lamp. You turned it on, and didn’t know whether to be grateful for the light or not. On one hand, you could get a better look at your surroundings. On the other, you now had to look Speedwagon in the eyes, making your embarrassment flood back to you.

“Well, at least this light works. Maybe we can find a key around here. If not, I guess we can always break down the door?” you suggested rather stupidly while scanning the room in search of anything useful. You were reaching for a broom when Speedwagon set a hand on your shoulder.

"Wait, Y/n, before anything…I wanted to ask you about earlier." Oh no, here it comes. You swallowed a lump in your throat and let the broom fall against the wall.

Speedwagon fidgeted with his tie and averted his gaze as he spoke. "Couldn't you have, OH I don't know- feigned a heart attack, or something other than canoodling with me!?" His cheeks were a fiery color, now matching yours.

You sat there in silence for a while, clutching onto the lamp as if a genie would come out to save you if you believed hard enough. You might not have been granted salvation, but the least you could receive was courage. “There’s a couple of reasons I chose to do what I did ya know," you started. For once, Speedwagon didn't say anything in response, instead waiting for you to elaborate.

“Well for one, when I spoke to the nurses earlier, they said something rather interesting. They told me there were rumors of a young couple getting frisky somewhere around the hospital.” You glanced momentarily at the man to make sure he was following along. As expected, his eyes were trained on you, and you quickly looked away to continue. "So when you told me about Jonathan and Erina, that pretty much confirmed it was them.”

Your reasoning was starting to dawn on him. “Ohhh, I get it! Eventually they’d be found out, unless someone else beat 'em to the punch. Now everyone will just think it’s us.”

“Precisely. I’m willing to take the blame for their sake. After all, it’s not our reputation that matters here.” You knew Speedwagon felt the same way about those two, if not more. You would do anything to uphold their honor, even if their sudden fuck session was uncalled for.

“I don’t think the doctor got a good look at our faces anyhow,” you added with a shrug, followed by a rolling of the eyes. “Honestly, the things we do for those two. Didn’t know this came with being best man or maid of honor, yet here we are.”

Speedwagon was in complete agreement with you. Although it made sense so far, he recalled there was more to the story. Curious to know, he questioned further. “Yes, well you said you had a couple of reasons for doing that little act back there, so…mind telling me the other reason?”

Here comes the hard part. “Oh, right. W-well you see Speedwagon…I did it simply because I desired to do so. I’ve been wanting to for a while now." The increasing beating of your heart was impossible to ignore at this point. "I know these aren’t exactly the most favorable circumstances, but oh well. Blame those two for not being able to keep it in their trousers." You hoped a little jest would help hide your anxiousness, but who are you kidding, you were a mess.

Robert grinned bashfully at your choice of words. “Y-y/n are you saying then, that you feel something for me?”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” you confirmed, setting the lamp down on a shelf. “I’m confessing my love to you in a damn broom closet.” The awkwardness of the situation made you turn away and rest a palm against your face in dismay. The weight of his eyes on you was too much to bear right now. Because of your refusal to properly face him, you didn’t even notice he was smiling.

Although you were already in close enough proximity due to being in such an enclosed space, Robert stepped even closer to you. He lifted the palm that was covering your face, and held it in his own hand. The other was placed gingerly on your cheek, so you could turn to face him. Although his fingers were somewhat callused, the action was a tender one.

“Y/n, broom closet or not, I'm glad you said all this,” he said as he leaned in closer to you. In the dim glow of the lamp, you were the most precious thing to him. He’s sure even in complete darkness, he’d be able to identify your every breath.

How silly it was that not too long ago, you felt bold enough to practically crawl all over the man, but were now flustered by the slightest of his touches. His warm brown eyes held you captive, making it impossible to look away from him now. “What- what are you…”

“I must confess I love you too, dearest.” You froze in place for a moment, until the warmth of his lips melted away any remaining uncertainty. Your mouths moved against each other, a bit out of tune at first. Eventually though, it was as if your lips were fated to meet in a silent symphony.

Once you pulled away, Speedwagon let out an amused chuckle. “I must say, that was rather bold of you back there, saying all those things with such volume and detail. Even I was rattled by it.”

“With such volume and detail? I learned that from you, Robert dear,” you smiled sweetly, running your fingers through his long shaggy hair. You then gave a dismissive laugh to wrap your arms around his neck. “And what’s bold is that Jonathan and Erina! Surely Jonathan’s at least still a bit injured, yet there he was going at it like nothing! Tell me, just how good was it? I’d like to know since I didn’t even get a chance to see, and we’re in this predicament now because of it.”

The image of Jonathan and Erina flashed before Speedwagon’s eyes, and it was still as clear as ever. He didn’t even mean to see, it just happened. “W-well…Mr. Joestar was certainly approaching his conclusion, along with Erina. I assure you they got to their agony of bliss if that's what you're asking.”

“How lovely for them,” you snorted in amusement. “Hm, as long as we’re stuck in this broom closet, what say we do something…exciting?”

With the hint of your suggestive tone, Speedwagon immediately knew what you meant. “Y-y/n! Here, really!?”

“What? I’m just saying maybe we should follow the example of our good friends. Surely, you've still got a stiff one from seeing Jonathan earlier,” you teased.

Speedwagon’s face turned a rosy shade at your inappropriate assumption, but he couldn't deny it. As if that wasn't enough to get him going, you would be the bane of his existence and ruin him further. “W-well, now that you mention it…”

You grin at his response, and slide a hand down to unbuckle his trousers. This would certainly keep you occupied for a while.

“I’ll be right with you Jonathan, let me just go fetch a broom!” Upon opening the door, Erina let out an astonished gasp. “Y-y/n!? Speedwagon!?”

The man in question was leaning against the wall with you knelt before him. You turned to the woman at the door while Speedwagon quickly tried using his coat to cover his exposed lower half.

Her surprised expression made you scoff. “Listen here Erina, don’t act like you weren't doing this with Jonathan just now. Though I suppose it was in a different position, but still.” You then handed Erina a broom. “Here ya go. Do close the door on your way out!"

Erina shut the door, stepping away slowly. Oh, so that’s what had happened. Though she really should've expected something like this to eventually take place.

[sapphic-scylla]

Ok, this story is a 3-parter. Petra’s story is the anchor for my entire world that I’ve built and she is sewn directly into my heart so I wanted to tell her story in as much detail as I could. I love all of my OC’s, but Petra is my favorite and I hope you love reading her story as much as I do writing it. @ebevkisk

CW: Grief, Arrest, Mentions of Death and Madness, Dark Sequences

Angel of Blood Part 1

Before every story I’ve told for our heroes, there was a lie. Multanith’s lie was an execution of an entire race on the continent of Cor Varias itself. A war crime that shook the world of Luzitaria. Governments shifted and the gods themselves unleashed a deep wrath that would shape the continent into what it was today. What a lot of people don’t know is that this event shifted the fates of an otherwise normal Aasimar into the world’s most sought after creature and the world’s most dangerous individual, but in order to tell her story, we have to tell it from the very beginning.

On the other side of the world was the continent of Pelo Avias. Pelo Avias was known as the Realm of Wings as most of the continent was constantly floating above the Guridan Ocean. Unlike the Floating Cities of Steel and Titanium, Pelo Avias was built atop several magic infused landmasses. The people that lived there were a mixing pot of people all led by a magocracy of the world’s most prolific arcane practitioners. All of them were geared towards the betterment of the continent and it was thriving.

Living deep within the streets of Pelo Avias was a young boy. This 9-year-old child lived with two wizards who kept him safe and took care of him while he grew. He had fiery red hair, lavender eyes, and This boy had divine blood that ran through his veins, but it felt dark and malevolent somehow. This boy also struggled with a problem. He didn’t like the idea that he was born as a boy, though he’d never voiced it to his guardians before.

His guardians attempted to give this child a normal life because they knew they couldn’t protect him from his destiny for much longer and especially with how the Disparity had started to shake the world, the wizards couldn’t how much longer they could keep their secret under the covers.

This child was a prodigy. Magic of all kinds came to them so naturally as if the world was attuned to their presence. Arcane and divine symbols flared and even the child’s own writing sprang into vibrant shades of color as they wrote. The wizards were in awe of how much this child knew.

One day, the wizards spoke to the child and said “We fear something will try to take you from us, so we’re going to travel somewhere far away, ok? If there is anything we can do to make you happier, we would do it.”

The child looked up at their parents and said “Would it be ok if I was a girl instead?”

They looked at each other and said “Oh, of course, hun. We’ll do this spell really quick and then we need to pack our things.” With a quick wave of her hand, Petra became her true self. Beaming, Petra ran off to pack her things.

As Petra was finishing finding all of her books, a knock came to the door. One of her mothers came to Petra with panic in her eyes and helped her hide. Petra used a spell to cast Clairvoyance to watch over her other parent to see what was going on.

The other wizard went to the door. As she opened it, an imposing figure stood at the door. This being, even through the spell, radiated a deeply and uncomfortably powerful energy. Almost overpowering and yet familiar.

“Where is my child?” He said.

The wizard dusted herself off. “We told you years ago, you can’t see her. You had your chance. You and her mother treated her with vile abandon and you are not welcome in this home.”

The being’s eyes flared blood red. “You do not get to tell me what I can and cannot do with my own blood. I am a god, you insignificant creature. Tell me where she is or I will take matters into my own hands.”

The wizard stood her ground defiantly without a word.

“Fine. I’m the god of tyranny for a reason. Subjugation is my specialty and the mortal will is a mere toy.” Reaching out a hand, the man attempted to force her will and she countered. Right as a fight ensued, Petra broke her own concentration.

Her other guardian gave her a hug. “This is what we were worried about. I’m sending you to a place you’ll be safe, ok? Somewhere where life is more complicated, but he won’t be able to find you.”

Memories flashed through Petra’s mind of a man like that. One who had treated her terribly. “But what about you?”

The wizard smiled. “We’ll be right behind you, ok?”

As the wizard cast teleportation, Petra felt the whooshing she was used to as arcane runes covered her vision and in a couple seconds she appeared in a tower.

In an instant, Petra could feel the time shift. She was halfway across the world. As she looked around, she found herself in a gilded room with golden tapestries and all manner of artifacts and times. A door opened and she found an old goblin. “Ah, Miss Petra. It’s nice to formally meet you. I am Hybrill Grawne. I work with your guardians and they told me of your arrival just a few minutes ago. If you could please come with me…” He gestured towards the door he’d just walked through and Petra followed. She was barely taller than he was, but he felt like a humble kindred soul, so her nerves slowly began to calm despite the rushed nature of the day she had had.

The goblin led her to a window and she saw, sprawled out before her, a gorgeous city of pale ivory and vibrant colors and, beyond that, miles of wilderness and farmland, all leading up to the tallest mountain she’d ever seen sitting on the horizon. “Welcome to Cor Varias. This is the Capital City of Pelevair.”

Petra, still justifiably upset after the rush of emotions she’d just had. Going from the happiest she’d ever been to being ripped away from the only loving people she’d ever known, she couldn’t help but attempt to make sense of it all. The sun was setting even though she’d only been awake for a couple hours at this point.

“My parents are in trouble.” Petra said, failing to hide her concern. Hybrill gave a grim nod. “I’m well aware, my child, but if anyone can take care of themselves, it’s them. Tell me, do you like books?” The goblin said, leading her down the stairs.

Petra was dumbfounded. “I mean yeah, but what does that have to do with…”

Hybrill handed a book to her. “Your parents told me how truly gifted you are with magic.”

Petra snarled. “Well, yeah but I don’t see how that would…”

Hybrill continued to lead her down the stairs. “Well, your parents told me that you basically graduated from high school two years ago, so if you would like to help me with the library, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Petra snapped. “Why are you being like this? My parents might be dead!” As the words escaped her mouth, her lavender eyes welled up with tears as all of the bottled up emotions broke at the same moment and she collapsed to the floor.

As she cried, a worn, gnarled hand gently touched her shoulder.

“The world does not fight fair. Whether it be by the gods’ will or by the universe itself, fate does not always use a gentle touch. I may not be able to say the fate of your guardians, but I can prepare you to find them. I am the Arcane Protector of the Mortal Accretion. This library carries everything we know about this world we live in and of what we are capable. Work as my page and as a scribe and I will do all within my power to prepare you.”

Petra, still crying, looked down. Her world had changed in a matter of minutes, but this library gave her the tools. Enough time spent here and maybe. Just maybe.

~~~

A decade had passed and Petra had become an integral part of the library. As Hybrill Grawne’s star pupil and apprentice, the archive had never been more organized. When Petra turned 18, Hybrill Grawne offered to do her gender reassignment spell and she accepted. Finally, when she turned 21, she had completely caught and surpassed her tutor. Truly proficient in all schools of magic, she decided it was time to begin her search.

As she packed her bags, there was a knock at the front door. Hybrill Grawne moved to answer it and a panicked energy entered the library. Petra listened as she heard him speaking with two guards. She recognized their voices and the urgency within them.

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“Council’s orders. We sincerely apologize. Step aside.”

“You take her and nothing will change. She has done nothing wrong.”

“Step aside!”

She heard the guards approaching and, as she turned, the guards magically restrained her and carried her off into the dead of night without so much as a word as to why, Hybrill audibly crying as she was arrested.

~~~

The next two weeks were a nightmare. The Divine Acolyte, the leader of worship and clergy of the church had ordered a seize and contain order on all Aasimar upon the continent. Hundreds of thousands of Aasimar were corralled without reason and brought to the Ivory City. Children, adults, elderly. All were brought and led into the catacombs beneath the city and left to rot as a safeguard to protect the commonwealth against the deities’ war that continued to ravage the world. Petra felt the tension and sadness that drifted off of all of the people that she was led with and the deeper they went, the worse it got.

The Catacombs of the City were an underground tower of stairs. Just a drop into darkness where thousands of people were kept. Fires were struck to keep the light from fading as people organized on the stairs to find places to sleep and reconnect with their loved ones. Several Aasimar even played music on the few instruments they had.

Petra had found a small alcove to duck into. She had managed to keep the one Satchel of Holding she used to pack all of her things. She could still feel the sadness echoing into her soul as she sat, dimly lit by a fire she had made out of some hay and a fire bolt cantrip.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. Slowly with the passage of time, several of the inhabitants of the catacombs began to fade. The voices of talking became quieter as the days dragged on. People tried to keep everyone alive with the use of magic and spells, but eventually they fell into a deep endless sleep as well. As more time dragged on, some Aasimar were even driven mad by the conditions, wandering the catacombs in a state of insanity. So much so that Petra had to continue to move deeper down the staircase to avoid being found by her lost compatriots. The Aasimar were lost and Petra’s only hope for salvation was downward.

[fantomevoleur]

Valentine's. A day for couples. A day Makoto gets to enjoy with the one and only boy who stole her heart. It's cheesy and so unlike the Student Council President to be so... happy today, but she had a good reason. She had purchased the best chocolates she could find, and they were both pricey and delicious according to the cashier. She trusted her judgement and set out to find Akira during their lunch break.

She spotted a head of messy black hair heading for the cafeteria and quickly stopped him by tapping his shoulder. "Akira, wait!" She called out and once he turned his head, the brunette presented him with a red heart-shaped chocolate box wrapped in a dark blue bow. It even had a card saying 'to my Joker... from your Queen'.

"For you... Happy Valentine's day." The red color on her cheeks was inevitable. "Um, if you're free, I'd like to walk home with you today as well." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear sheepishly.

Another Valentine's filled Shujin's halls with lovestruck couples and students steeling their bravado to confess their true feelings towards their crush. It was a holiday of love, and heartbreak. Fifty-fifty, so long as fate's scales favored the individual's desires. Akira always felt more neutral when it came to February's festivities, minding much of his own business and quietly overserving his surroundings. He'd be lucky if one person handed him leftover handmade chocolates or a homemade, crafted card just to feel included. Yet the second-year never minded being ignored. It wasn't the first time, nor did he expect it to be the last.

Sometimes, though, a small surprise made all the difference. A few 'mysterious, unmarked letters' appeared inside his locker, each written with patience and careful writing. So some students happened to foster deeper sentiments to the delinquent transfer student? How thoughtful. His besmirched name must not have driven away all of his fellow classmates. Those notes remained in place, tucked away and safely hidden underneath his books. Their bravery for taking the first step forward was something to admire, and Akira wished he knew their names in order to congratulate them. And at the same time, let them down easy and in person.

His heart belonged to a queen, after all.

Those thoughts must have materialized into reality since grey hues spotted the brunette jogging down the breezeway. A medium-sized, heart-shaped box took his attention almost immediately as she presented it to him in celebration of today's events. The cold-hearted, student council president participating in a love-themed festival? Guess this could count as a miracle.

"Well, well, Miss Prez. I never expected you to go out of your way and buy chocolates for little ole me~." He playfully teased, smirking and prodding the woman with his brand of mischief. "The good kind, too. I must be reeeeally special if you bought this just for me." It was the truth. In his eyes, Makoto held more importance to him than most others, aside from his merry band of thieves.

She loved him. And he loved her. Completely.

Once he set the box on a nearby bench, he stepped forward and placed a chaste kiss on the top of her head. Screw it if anyone happened to be around there at the time! It was Valentine's Day after all, so he could display as much PDA as he desired. "Thank you, dear. Let's share these together later on today. Perhaps in the student council office? After school hours~?"

[offrozenmemoirs]

Slinking from the shadows of the alley, Maisie Doscedar steps into the fringe of the prince's peripheral. Both of her hands are clasped at the small of her back, silent and assured, her posture impeccable. As Dewburrow's proverbial eyes, details scarcely escape her. Though she may not always grasp the full narrative, a pattern spotted means the tracking commences for the one-person hunting party. "Koto, what a pleasure to see you this evening." She greets him with a welcoming smile. The following inquiry comes with candid casualness: "A quick query: have you, by chance, noticed Orchidus' spontaneous disappearances?" Her lips press together, her eyes briefly flitting as if gathering her thoughts. "It's a strange recurrence." 

Her gaze returns to him, that genial glimmer going from her eyes. "It is almost as if he was plucked from our midst by unseen forces. Spirited away even. Funny that." A sharp intensity belied in her eyes, the mirth hollowed from her voice. It's best not to deceive, for Maisie's eyes are as keen as a hunting dog finding its quarry. 

Unprompted Asks || Accepting! @allthatisleftinthedark

"Hm, I don't know what you mean. Why would I bother sheltering Orchidus when he's shown to enjoy your home more than mine?"

Makoto's face betrays no emotion as he speaks. After all, he doesn't need the gnome beginning to question him or any of his potential exploits. Not to mention that he and Ori hadn't really given any real talk about what this was. They're less in a relationship and more...Two very confused individuals who happen to have an interest in one another. It's something he worries over, because he's aware of the bleedover's effect on himself, but he's not certain on how it affects his party members. Their union is something uncertain already, close to being fragile. If not because of the inherent issues that came from Ori not belonging to their world, then certainly his and Maisie's statuses as representatives of their homes.

"I certainly wouldn't hide your boytoy from you."

He smiles, almost casually as he places his hands behind his back. Glacial eyes peering back into her own.

[Don't you get bored of pretending you're not hopelessly pining after her? You could probably get somewhere if you were honest with your feelings for once. But you're too stubborn to open yourself to something new, aren't you?]

His face betrays nothing as he begins to walk away from Maisie. Already feeling Khorne's presence returning once more, he needs to leave before things go out of control. It's one thing to deal with the dark god of war when he was angered enough...It's another entirely when it comes to matters of the heart.

[Ignoring me again, 'Koto? You wound me. You know I won't go anywhere, not for long. For one so cold about the taking of lives...You're certainly a coward when it comes to embracing others, aren't you?]

"Be silent."

Makoto keeps his face steeled, and his lips do not move as he speaks within his mind.

[All should behold the poor Prince of Frost. An unfeeling paragon of sacrificing all for the sake of his people! Denying himself the pleasures of the flesh and even pride in war! Truly, if he were any more of a courageous man, he would be a Saint!]

Makoto's wings spread and he took to the skies, he needed to leave, lest Maisie question him, and not out of whatever she wanted to learn, but concern most likely. He supposes he understands...He is a constant risk, falling into a blood rage if he's not careful when he gets angered enough. His very nature as a spirit made his emotions a much stronger thing than he liked to admit. He hates that he doesn't know how to be vulnerable, because the very idea of someone seeing him at his lowest, seeing the facade crumble into dust...It terrifies him. He doesn't know what to do, because he was never prepared to deal with this.

He does not want these feelings, because what was he supposed to do with them? How was he supposed to open himself to another, when it meant that he would have to open himself to losing them?

Tis better to suffer in silence.

[sapphireclaw]

If you don’t mind me asking, how does the reunion between Ingo and Emmet go?

Time to write a reunion fic woop woop here we go

(Tw for depressing thoughts and a panic attack. This was meant to be more light hearted but oops I made it emotional hurt/comfort. I’ll have to write an alternate version that’s sillier)

AO3 link

That Time Emmet’s Missing Brother Came Back Home After a Month but Turns Out He was Dead the Whole Time (and also he’s like 329 years old now)

Starting today, Ingo had been missing for over a month.

30 days.

They say that the chances of finding a missing person dwindle into slim to none after 48 hours.

It had been 725 hours and 37 minutes since Ingo disappeared from the subway tunnels without a trace.

The search was still going (Emmet was no longer allowed to join the search parties), but he knew that with time people would give up on finding a living man, and reduce the parties to a few individuals and cadaver Stoutlands.

Emmet refused to think about that, though. It had only been a month. A month without Ingo. A month of hell. But Ingo was still out there. He had to be.

Ever since he was forbidden from joining in on the search, Emmet took to lazing around his their apartment. The Battle Subway was closed, and he’d been forced to take leave from work. He felt lethargic and empty with nothing to do. Had been since Ingo never emerged from the tunnels to walk home with Emmet.

That was Emmet’s current state. Draped across the couch in a daze while his Pokémon attempted to get him to eat the food Elesa had brought him yesterday. Elesa’s support was much appreciated, but not always welcomed. Emmet didn’t need a caretaker. Elesa’s efforts would be better off aimed at finding Ingo than taking care of a depressed couch potato.

“Drilll...”

Speaking of potato...

Emmet sighed, lifting his face from the cushions to look over at his and Ingo’s shared Pokémon. Excadrill was standing near Emmet’s head, holding out a cold stuffed potato skin, pinched delicately between his steel claws. How he got into the Pokémon-proofed fridge to get at the leftovers, Emmet had no idea. Still, he couldn’t help but feel touched by the effort.

“Thank you, Wilbur.” Emmet murmured, offering the ground and steel type a weak smile as he took the cold food from him. Wilbur grunted happily, returning Emmet’s smile with one of his own. He seemed pleased with himself as Emmet took a bite of the potato, and soon left his trainer alone to eat.

The food tasted like ash in his mouth.

How pathetic was he? A grown man that couldn’t even eat properly without being babied by his own Pokémon. Not to mention Elesa having to bully him into completing other tasks a human needed in order to function.

Before Emmet could spiral further down such self-depreciating thoughts, there was a faint knocking at his apartment door. He looked up from his food, startled, and stared at the door. Who could possibly be visiting so late at night? Elesa had checked on him just yesterday. The thought of her visiting again so soon grated on his nerves. He didn’t need a babysitter.

The knocking came again, sounding more impatient this time due to Emmet’s inaction.

“I am Emmet, and I don’t feel up to socializing, Elesa. Please depart at once!”

There was a beat of silence, and Emmet could practically feel the hurt he caused. immediately, guilt slammed into him like a speeding bullet train.

Elesa was just trying to help, like any good friend would in his time of hardship. Pushing her away would do nothing but harm their relationship.

Even with the guilt eating at him, Emmet did not take back his words. It was true that he wasn’t in the mood to socialize. As much as he loved his dear friend, Emmet could only take so much in his current state before he risked suffering a shutdown. The only person he wanted to see right now was-

“...Emmet? Can you let me in, please? I don’t have my keys...”

Ingo.

That was Ingo. The voice was quiet, uncharacteristic of his brother, but undoubtedly his.

Emmet moved faster than he ever had before in his life, scrambling off the couch and nearly braining himself on the coffee table as a result. The subway boss practically ran on all fours to the door, never quite regaining his footing but desperate to reach his brother.

There was a split second after he grasped the doorknob and hauled himself up where Emmet suddenly froze. Doubt began to creep up his spine as he stared blankly at the wood inches in front of his face.

What if this was just another dream?

What if this was just another layer to his suffering. Emmet was no stranger to the occasional auditory hallucination, but never before had he experienced one quite as realistic as this. If he opened the door and there was no one standing on the other side, Emmet was sure that he’d break.

Another round of knocking jolted Emmet from his spiral yet again, making his ears ring with how close to the door he was standing.

If this was a hallucination, then it was a verrry convincing one.

Before he could doubt himself further, Emmet twisted the doorknob and thrust open the door. He did not blink as he did so, trusting his eyesight above his hearing at this point.

There in the hallway stood Ingo. Emmet couldn’t help but drink in the sight of his brother.

He looked different. His coat was ragged and torn, and he wore an odd pink garment under it. His face looked like it had aged years in the single month he was gone. Littered with scars and a few stress wrinkles. How verry strange.

Emmet stared at Ingo for what felt like ages while Ingo stared back.

Then, Ingo blinked, and Emmet caught the flash of purple light in his pupils, like the reflective tapetum lucidum of a nocturnal Pokémon.

Ah.

This was not Ingo, then.

An impostor.

A shapeshifting Pokémon playing a cruel trick on a grieving man.

Emmet felt faint, but mustered the strength to slam the door as hard as he could in the trickster’s face before it could cause more damage to his already fragile heart.

Or, at least he tried to.

A worn boot stopped the door from closing all the way, and the Pokémon was quick to wedge half of its body into the crack provided.

“Wait! Wait- wait- wait- Emmet it’s me, it’s Ingo!”

Verrry impressive. It even sounded like Ingo.

Emmet didn’t dignify them with an answer, and instead pressed the entirety of his (albeit slight) weight against the door, hoping the intruder would give up in trying to worm its way into the apartment. The thrashing impostor did eventually retreat back into the hallway, and Emmet was able to close and lock the door triumphantly.

Releasing a shaky breath, the man slowly slid down the wall to sit on the floor. Adrenaline still pumped through Emmet’s veins, and his legs felt like jelly. At least he could now breathe.

It was short-lived, however.

Emmet let out a shriek when a transparent arm suddenly passed through the door right above his head, quickly followed by the rest of the Ingo-lookalike. He could only watch in horror as It pulled itself through the solid wood as if it weren’t there, as if invading Emmet’s sanctuary was the easiest thing in the world.

Scrambling backward, Emmet realized that he didn’t even have time to grab his Xtrans to maybe call for help before the creature was upon him.

The cruel visage of his brother loomed over him, eyes glowing purple and white in the dim light.

“Emmet- Emmet, please calm down. Let me explain.”

Calm down? How could he possibly calm down when he was most definitely about to lose his life. Poor Elesa would surely be the first to find his body in the morning-

“Oh, for the love of Almighty Sinnoh, you’re not dying, Emmet.”

It could even perfectly mimic Ingo’s distinct exasperated tone of voice. How awful.

“I’m not mimicking anything. I am not a zoroark, Emmet. Or a ditto. This is real. Look-“

Emmet flinched when he felt a cold hand grasp his wrist. He chanced a look up at the impostor, and felt his heart ache at the worried look upon their face. It looked just like Ingo did when he was trying to help Emmet down from a panic attack. Concern and love showing clearly in his eyes even if his expression didn’t change...

“That’s it, Emmet.” Ingo the impostor murmured gently, cold fingers rubbing soothing circles against his knuckles. “Just breathe deep for me. You’ll be back on track soon.”

Oh. He actually was having a panic attack, wasn’t he? And this... Pokémon was doing an admittedly amazing job at helping him recover from it.

Emmet closed his eyes. For just a moment he let himself believe that it really was his dear brother comforting him. He had no idea what was in store for him at the hands of this impostor. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge for a second, right?

“You are verrry good at this.” Emmet croaked.

The impostor (Ingpostor, Emmet thought hysterically) snorted a sad little laugh.

“Of course I am. I’ve had plenty of practice. You were a very anxious kid, Emmet. Don’t you remember?”

The familiar voice was a pleasant rumble close to Emmet’s ear. He didn’t even notice Ingo? the impostor get closer. There was now an arm around his shoulders as well as the hand still rubbing circles into Emmet’s skin. It felt so nice. It had been much too long since he’d felt his brother’s soothing presence.

This had to stop before Emmet’s heart broke beyond repair.

“I am Emmet. You are not Ingo.”

He felt the arm around his shoulder tighten, but not uncomfortably so.

“I am. I swear I am, Emmet. I’ll prove it to you, if you’ll let me.”

Hm. That is not what Emmet expected them to say. They were putting their heart and soul into this charade. Why?

“How?” Emmet said instead.

“Like this,” that painfully familiar voice replied.

Then, the impostor began to hum.

It was a tune Emmet knew verrry well.

A Lullaby for Trains.

Their mother used to sing it to them, before she passed away. The song was dear to the two brothers, and they would often sing or hum the tune whenever they were in dire need of comfort. So many nights spent huddled together under the blankets in each other’s arms. Unsure where one twin began and the other ended. All they knew was the soothing melody and the presence of each other.

It was something they shared just between them. Not even Elesa had ever witnessed the twins at their most vulnerable.

Ingo (because it really was Ingo, wasn’t it?) wasn’t even halfway through the song before Emmet burst into tears.

He was on the other in an instant. Ingo felt cold to the touch, but Emmet didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around his brother’s neck and snuggled against his chest as if he were a small child again. Ingo in turn snaked his arms around his twin and gave him a proper hug. Despite the sudden track change, Ingo kept humming the lullaby without stuttering once.

By the time the last few notes floated through the air, Emmet’s breathing was under control, and the implications of the whole situation dawned on him.

“I am Emmet... you... you are Ingo.”

“Mhmm.” Ingo hummed. A pleasant rumble against Emmet’s ear.

The younger twin slowly extracted himself from the embrace, though only enough so that he could look up at his brother’s face.

This time, Ingo didn’t look nearly as weathered. The scars were gone, and so were the wrinkles. His hat and coat were in pristine condition. The pink garment was nowhere to be seen, replaced by the usual crisp white button-up and blue tie. The only thing that remained of the haunted-looking version of his brother he had seen at the door was the odd purple-magenta shine he could still see in Ingo’s eyes. Had he imagined his haggard appearance before?

“What… what happened to you, Ingo?” Emmet hesitantly asked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Sure enough, Ingo’s frown deepened, and he averted his eyes.

“Ah… the story of my derailment is a long one, full of twists and rough tracks. Are you sure you want to hear it now? You look exhausted, Emmet.” Ingo took in Emmet’s admittedly less than pristine condition with concern.

Emmet did not like that. He felt ashamed of himself for letting his health fall to the wayside while Ingo was missing. He was quick to distract his brother from scrutinizing him further.

“Please, Ingo. I am Emmet and I need to know what happened to you. Full speed ahead, do not hold anything back. I can handle it.”

After all, he’d only been missing for a month. Aside from what turned his brother into… whatever he is now, not many other life altering things could have happened in that time, surely?

He was only gone for a month, after all.

.

.

.

… or not.

Ingo spun his tale like a Galvantula painstakingly weaving its web.

A dark god trapped under the thumb of a madman. His dear brother thrown headlong back in time and space by accident. Losing his memories yet always knowing that someone was missing. Becoming a warden. Meeting another displaced passenger, but without knowing anything other than his new station, did not return with them. Becoming sick and unable to recover. Ingo… dying…

Ingo had to stop his tale and help ground his younger brother before he could spiral into another panic attack.

Ingo had died.

Ingo had died alone hundreds of years and thousands of miles away from his true home.

“That can’t be right.” Emmet croaked, once again clinging desperately to Ingo. “You’re right here, not dead! I’m touching you right now!” He patted his brother’s chest for emphasis. “You couldn’t have died. You’re obviously not some ghost Pokémon!”

There was a long bout of silence. All that could be heard was Emmet’s breathing. Not Ingo’s.

Emmet’s heart dropped to his stomach. He pulled away so he could once again look at his brother, but Ingo was avoiding eye contact.

“Ingo?”

The older twin drew in a shaky breath.

“Giratina felt terribly for having caused my derailment, and prevented my spirit from fading into obscurity. They offered me a gift. An opportunity to see you again.” Ingo turned to meet Emmet’s eyes. His own shining with an unearthly glow.

Ingo took his brother’s hand in his own and slowly brought it up to his chest, where he pressed it against his sternum.

Just as Emmet feared, he felt nothing beating under flesh and bone. Only an odd sort of humming. It was almost electrical. It was most certainly not a heartbeat.

Ingo was quick to explain further.

“I am what Giratina calls a Distortion Ghost. An inhuman being made of antimatter. This was the only way I could see you again, Emmet.” Ingo’s grip on his hand tightened, and Emmet could feel him shaking, “My memories had just returned to their proper station. I had to get back to you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you never knowing what became of me. I waited centuries to see you again. I know I’m not human, I know my existence is unfathomable and terrible, but I’m still me, Emmet. I promise I’m still your brother. Please believe me.”

Emmet realized with a start that Ingo was crying when a drop of glowing magenta liquid landed on his hand where it was still pressed against his brother’s chest. He looked up at Ingo’s face, heart breaking at the terrified look in his eyes. Eyes that were leaking a luminescent substance in place of tears. Ingo was trembling, and he unconsciously pressed Emmet’s hand harder against his sternum.

Oh.

Oh no.

Ingo thought Emmet was afraid of him. He was scared that Emmet might not accept him as he was now.

That wouldn’t do.

Emmet splayed his fingers against Ingo’s chest, feeling that strange thrumming energy just beneath the surface. With a deliberating hum, he gave his brother’s chest a couple of firm pats before drawing his hand away. Ingo released the grip he had on Emmet’s wrist easily enough, staring over Emmet’s shoulder instead of directly into his eyes. His whole expression screamed trepidation.

“I am Emmet. You are Ingo.”

He said it with such finality that Ingo met his gaze again, eyes wide.

“We are a two-car train, you and I. Nothing in this world or the next will change that. I may not understand what all this-“ Emmet gave Ingo’s chest a firm poke, “entails, but know that I will be with you through it all. Because I am Emmet, and you are Ingo, and I would love you with all my heart even if you were a walking, talking patrat.”

With that blunt declaration, it was Ingo’s turn to burst into tears.

Emmet simply held his brother as he shook and sobbed against him in a reverse of their positions just a few minutes earlier.

How lonely, how daunting it must’ve been, Emmet thought sadly, to have to wander the earth for centuries in a new and terrifying state, waiting for the day he could reconnect with his other half.

Well. Hopefully now that they were coupled once again, they could help each other come to terms with their new situation. Godly interference or no, Emmet was just happy to have Ingo back.

It didn’t matter that he had no heartbeat. It didn’t matter that his eyes glowed. It didn’t matter that he cried strange purple tears. New state of being aside, this was still undoubtedly Ingo. Here in his arms again.

And that’s all Emmet could have asked for.

[makeste]

BnHA 323: “I Don’t Know How to Explain to You That You Should Care About Other People”

Previously on BnHA: Kacchan was all, “Izuku, I’m sorry.” Bakugou Stans were all, “[sobs for a week straight and tearfully awards him the Nobel Prize for character development].” Deku was all, “[faints in Kacchan’s arms].” Iida was all, “[trying to decide if Ochako genuinely tried to kill him a few minutes ago].” Horikoshi was all, “NO TIME FOR HUGS WE MUST GET BACK TO UA.” The civilians holed up at U.A. were all, “WE TOOK A VOTE AND DECIDED THAT WE’RE ALL GOING TO BE JERKS ABOUT THIS AND MAKE A BIG FUSS ABOUT YOU LETTING DEKU BACK INTO THE SCHOOL.” Deku was all “[stands there looking like he expected nothing less and breaking my heart more and more with each passing moment].” Ochako was all, “that does it, looks like I’m gonna have to do something about this... next chapter, that is.”

Today on BnHA: Flashback!Rat Principal is all “I just want you all to know that I spent nine million dollars turning U.A. into a giant Battleship-style grid that can burrow underground and zoom around in a giant subway maze because Horikoshi lacks a grounded understanding of both civil engineering and economics.” Back in the present day, Jeanist is all, “EVERYONE TAKE HEED, MY COMRADES AND I HAVE DEEMED IT EXPEDIENT TO CONVEY THIS AUSPICIOUS YOUTH BACK TO THIS STRONGHOLD. WE ANTICIPATE THAT WE MAY DEPEND UPON YOUR GOODWILL AND ACQUIESCENCE TO THESE TERMS.” The civilians were all, “NO.” Ochako was all, “EMPATHY, MOTHERFUCKERS, DO YOU SPEAK IT?!” The civilians were all, “oh shit.” Anyway so Ochako is a giant badass, but I’m a little worried that she’s going to get struck by lightning. Please come down from there.

so before we start this chapter, I would just like to apologize for having not posted the ch 321 recap yet, and would like to reassure everyone, and especially Iida who is staring at me with Sad Wobbly Guilt Trip Eyes, that I will get to that as soon as I can

OMG FLASHBACK??

yes please Horikoshi please show us more of class 1-A and their Deku intervention strategy jam sessions

oh dear

Iida you are too pure and good for this cruel world. [sprays the U.A. civilians with a water bottle] NO. BAD CIVILIANS! NO OSTRACIZING SCARED AND EXHAUSTED CHILDREN IN THE HOUSE

EXCUSE ME RAT PRINCIPAL WHAT’S WITH THESE MIXED MESSAGES

???

RAT PRINCIPAL: he’s free to return to us at any time!!

ALSO RAT PRINCIPAL: but it’s too risky for him to return to us

?? ??????? ?????????????????????

so now he’s going on about how strong the U.A. Barrier is, and how it’s comparable to the defensive capabilities of Tartarus. this would have sounded a lot more impressive before chapter 297 lol

OH!!!! HELLO, WHAT’S THIS!!!

A TIMELY CALLBACK TO A CERTAIN MYSTERIOUS EVENT WHICH HASN’T BEEN REFERENCED SINCE USJ? [U.A. TRAITOR MUSIC INTENSIFIES]

so now Rat Principal says he upgraded U.A.’s security systems with his own “modifications”, whatever the fuck that means. I mean look, I’ve been saying for a long time now that U.A. is the best place for everyone to hole up, don’t get me wrong. but that was mostly on account of there not being any other practical alternatives. but you’re making it sound like you figured out a way to actually make it Decay-proof or some wild shit like that

-- hold up, DID YOU ADD A FORCE FIELD. DID YOU TRICK THIS SCHOOL OUT WAKANDA-STYLE YOU CRAZY MARSUPIAL. HOLY SHIT. because that would actually be perfect

LMAO

WHAT KIND OF GALAXY BRAIN BULLSHIT. “NAH THERE’S NO NEED FOR A FORCE FIELD, LET’S JUST PUT WHEELS ON IT”

oh okay so the whole campus is basically capable of burrowing itself underground. that’s insane lol I wonder how they pulled that off. probably got poor Cementoss working overtime

blah blah blah so basically the entire campus is split into a grid and each section of the grid is capable of its own independent movement. lol this is just the Merone Base from KHR. you thought no one would notice this casual plagiarism ten years after the fact, but YOU UNDERESTIMATED YOUR AUDIENCE, HORIKOSHI

“joke’s on you imma just lampshade it” WELL ALL RIGHT THEN

“look at me I’m so fucking self-aware” fucking swear to god. I can’t believe this man is my favorite mangaka of all time smdh

“excuse me, I wasn’t finished describing all the rest of this bullshit yet,” Rat Principal breaks in impatiently. “we also added a steel wall all around the underground of the campus that’s 3000 steel plates thick. that’s fifteen fucking meters of solid fucking steel just fyi. and if anyone fucks around with any part of it the defense system will activate immediately! and also all of the plates are independently motorized, whatever the fuck that means!! in conclusion you’re gonna need a fucking tower crane to suspend all of your disbelief by the time I’m through with this paragraph”

“also Shiketsu is almost as reinforced as U.A. but not quite because we still had to make sure we were better.” but of course. and apparently the two schools are connected via a secret tunnel as Hagakure mentioned earlier

LSDKFJLSDKJFLK

“WAIT WHAT” LMAO YOU HEARD HIM, NOW INASA CAN VISIT YOU BOTH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND TELL YOU ALL ABOUT THE WEIRD DREAM HE HAD. GOD BLESS YOU HORIKOSHI

(ETA: moment of appreciation for Shouto and Katsuki having the same thought at the same time and making Knowing Eye Contact and saying the exact same thing out loud in perfect unison like the best friends they are. what a blessed day.)

so Tokoyami is all “but wait if you engineered all this shit all the way back during the Band arc how did you even know that Tomura’s quirk awakening would become a thing, Horikoshi -- uh, I mean, Principal Nezu”

and Rat Principal is all “lol idk”

“basically I just woke up one morning and was all ‘say, you know what this school really needs? a fifteen-meter-thick underground steel wall, and the ability to break up into little pieces that individually zoom around wherever the fuck they want.’ jesus christ. lol if money and common sense were apparently no obstacle why didn’t you just teleport U.A. to the fucking moon or something. maybe I should shut up before I given him any ideas

dsfaelkjldkjgl

you heard it here first, folks, all of this cost a grand total of nine million U.S. dollars. well technically it cost “more than” nine million dollars. never has that distinction been more important lmao. are we sure this barrier was really made of steel and not cardboard? who the hell sold it to them, Ea-Nasir??

this is my favorite manga series of all time. yes I am ashamed

“in conclusion please do your best to reach Deku-kun” SO WHAT WAS ALL THAT NONSENSE ABOUT IT BEING TOO RISKY THEN. anyway thank you for this super informative and edifying flashback, Horikoshi. I will cherish it always. I don’t even want to read another translation of this absurdity lmao, there’s something special about it just the way it is. pretty sure Horikoshi just had a cracked out fever dream one night and transferred it to the pages of the manga verbatim

anyway so back to the unruly mob

not their finest moment. please excuse me while I cover poor Deku’s ears and give him a good shoosh pap

oh wow the parents are out here too

is Mitsuki trying to hold Inko back?? that’s the last thing this fandom needs right now is more Mitsuki discourse fffwlkjs. and even Jiroudad, scientifically proven to be the best dad in all of BnHA, is just standing there silently looking vaguely unhappy. way to rise to the moment you guys

MONOMA

so this settles it for me that Aizawa is not at UA. I know a lot of people have been wondering about his whereabouts, and if I had to wager a guess it would be that something happened with Shirakumo/Kurogiri. I can’t think of anything else -- even the loss of an eye and a limb -- that would keep him from his kids at a time like this

anyway but this is excellent Monoma content right here though. I love that he apparently adopted Eri after a single interaction with her. also WHERE IS SHINSOU DAMMIT. THE PEOPLE NEED TO KNOW

and Kouta’s there too looking like he wants to run over to Deku but Ragdoll won’t let him :/

it’s gotta be pretty upsetting for him to see his hero like this and not having anyone stand up for him. [taps megaphone] IS THIS THING ON. OKAY YEAH IT SEEMS TO BE WORKING. AHEM. PAGING URARAKA OCHAKO. GONNA NEED YOU TO GET OVER HERE ALREADY AND MAKE THAT BIG DRAMATIC SPEECH WHICH YOU ARE CLEARLY DYING TO MAKE. IF YOU DON’T DO IT SOON I’M GONNA HAVE TO STEP IN, AND YOU REALLY DON’T WANT ME TO DO THAT SINCE MY SPEECH WILL NOT BE VERY GOOD OR INSPIRING, AND WILL PROBABLY JUST CONSIST OF “HELLO, YOU ARE ALL STUPID, PLEASE SHUT UP AND GO AWAY”

so now Mic is telling them to calm down. at least someone’s speaking up here, geez

OH MY GOD

MY MAN JEANIST OUT HERE DOING WHAT HE DOES BEST: MAKING EVERYONE FEEL GUILTY AND JUDGED

OH MY GOD HE IS GIVING SUCH A LONG AND BORING SPEECH LMAO IS YOUR STRATEGY TO PUT THEM ALL TO SLEEP OR WHAT

truly in awe of this man’s ability to take messages which could easily be conveyed in ELI5-speak, and stubbornly convert them into incomprehensible language the likes of which you need a graduate degree in order to understand

“hey guys, so originally our plan was to use Deku as bait for the villains, but that didn’t really work and also we realized it was kinda dumb and was probably gonna get him killed, so we brought him back here instead.” was that really so hard, Jeanist. also are we all really just gonna sit back here and watch Jeanist take full credit for Bakugou’s plan just like that lmao

(ETA:

WHERE DID ENDEAVOR GO AND WHO IS THIS DIABOLICAL MASTER OF DISGUISE. lol I genuinely didn’t notice this because I was too busy digging through thesauruses trying to rewrite Jeanist’s speech; many thanks to @class1akids​ for pointing it out and making my day immeasurably better. take it easy there Dick Tracy.)

“anyway so please stop being dicks and let him fucking rest so he can save all your ungrateful asses” what an impassioned and inspiring plea. time to see if the masses will listen to reason

narrator: they did not listen to reason

oh my god finally Ochako is doing something. YEAH OCHAKO WOOOO SHOW THEM HOW IT’S DONE

hmm

this entire chapter is truly and utterly nonsensical to me lol

(ETA: on my second readthrough I’m fucking dying at how she stole the megaphone right out of Mic’s hand lmao. and how Kacchan is all “fuck yeah nothing I appreciate more than some quality fucking larceny.”)

oh I see she was jumping on top of the main building so as to scream down at them all more impressively

“ANYWAY DEKU IS PRETTY COOL ACTUALLY, YOU GUYS ARE JUST MEAN” couldn’t have said it better myself Ochako

lol uh

gotta say I did not have “Ochako reveals the secret of OFA to the entire U.A. Citizen Clown Parade” on my bingo card for this week. it’s a bold strategy cotton let’s see if it pays off

SDLFKJSL

“NO, SERIOUSLY, HAVE YOU LOOKED AT HIM YOU GUYS. YOU THINK HE LIKES RUNNING AROUND DRESSED LIKE A RUSTED OIL DRUM?? HE DID THAT FOR YOU YOU UNGRATEFUL SLOBS”

so she is basically explaining the entire Deku Angst arc to them and explaining what a good and selfless protagonist Deku is, YES, PREACH

OMG IT’S THE GIGANTIC FOX LADY

not to insinuate anything, but what exactly were you doing standing out here with the hysterical mob, Gigantic Fox Lady? you’re better than that

-- KACCHAN SIGHTING!!

sdlkfjl. thanks for weighing in with that helpful and important observation. where have you been for the last five minutes. were you asleep. was it Jeanist’s speech

never mind, now he’s yelling at the civilians so I instantly forgive him

THE FUTURE NUMBER ONE HERO, EVERYONE. THANK YOU, THANK YOU. HE’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK

“anyway so I’m just going to end the chapter here” lmao seventeen pages truly do go by so fast. at least he didn’t try to force in a cliffhanger at the end this time. dare I say, growth

so I guess the civilians are either gonna have a Kamino and/or Fukuoka-esque moment where they remember how to be decent people and apologize to this poor young man, or else they’ll remain unpersuaded, and so Kacchan will have to knock a few of their heads around until they become more inclined to be reasonable. either option is fine by me lol

[goingmorry]

Hello! Can you write monster trio reaction to someone flirting with their crush? Please ☀💛

[One Piece Headcanons] Monster Trio -> when someone flirts with their crush

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji Tags: female reader, jealous boys Author's Note: Thank you for the request! I love me some jealous boys. There's something about it that just hits right with me. 💖

MONKEY D. LUFFY

One clueless boi.

Figures out that he has a crush on you when he explains how he feels about you to Usopp.

Doesn't quite know how to express his feelings for you in a way that you'll understand.

Interrupts the other person from flirting with you.

"Hey, I found you!"

Barging in from god knows where, Luffy interrupts the man's playful antics by sandwiching himself in the tight space between you and the stranger.

Caught off-guard, the flirtatious man begins to shove the pirate captain away from his face, resulting in Luffy's muscular torso squeezing against your much softer one. The feel of his solid body against yours is enough to cause you to blush, prompting you to create some distance by pushing him away to the side.

"Listen, pal—" the man begins, about to give the straw hat pirate a piece of his mind for violating your personal space, but not before getting rudely interrupted again.

"Who's this guy?"

"An acquaintance," you pipe up instantly in response to your captain's inquiry, omitting the piece of information where this stranger spent the last twenty minutes hitting on you.

Apologizing for your captain's childish behavior, you give him a brief rundown of who precisely the straw hat-wearing pirate is.

"I'll call him porcupine from now on," Luffy says, pleased with the nickname given to the man sitting across from you, "Since he has spiky brown hair that reminds me of a porcupine!"

"I appreciate you taking the time to ask me out," you address the stranger, grabbing hold of Luffy's stretchy arm in the process, "But I don't think this is gonna work."

Pleased with the way events were unfolding, Luffy flashes you a toothy grin to which you cock an eyebrow in response.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"I-I don't know what you mean," he says, puckering his lips to the side. A telltale sign of an obvious lie.

You can't help but feel ridiculous for having a crush on the most insufferable pirate captain in all of existence, hoping that he, too, feels the same way as you do.

RORONOA ZORO

Only recently comes to terms with his feelings for you.

Hasn't figured out how he'll confess.

After all, romantic love is uncharted territory for him.

Won't really do anything unless he feels that you're in danger.

Pretends to be preoccupied with something else; ends up eavesdropping on your conversation with the flirtatious individual.

Inwardly though, he's more bothered than he lets on.

"Hey, I was wondering if you'd like to grab a coffee with me? I'd love to show you around town," the man says to you earnestly.

The sound of steel clashing against metal echoes loudly enough to startle people, their heads swiveling toward the origin of the noise.

In the corner of the room, the one-eyed swordsman sits upright, body tense in concentration while meticulously polishing Wado Ichimonji, one of his three signature blades.

Zoro ignores the curious looks thrown his way, focused instead on your interaction with the man in front of you.

The stranger's proposal was genuine enough. Objectively, he was undoubtedly an attractive man. Friendly and polite too from your conversations with him throughout the night.

He just... wasn't your type.

You were more interested in rougher-looking men. Someone who was strong but would never abuse their strength to harm the weak. Someone who was stoic but also had a heart of gold. Someone like—

Zoro glances in your direction, seeing the hesitation on your face in accepting the man's offer.

"Sorry, I don't think I can make it. I promised to do something with a friend," you explain, settling with a half-assed excuse for fear of confrontation.

It wasn't exactly a lie, not really. You did have plans to retrieve some supplies with a certain green-haired swordsman, though they weren't until much later in the day. But this man didn't need to know that.

Zoro wouldn't mind if you used him as an excuse.

The Pirate Hunter's shoulders relax considerably at your statement, switching his attention from you back to his current task.

Face expressing his disappointment at your rejection, the man's posture visibly deflates. "Maybe the next day then?" he adds as an afterthought.

Biting your lip guiltily, you shake your head, stray hair falling across your forehead. "Sorry, I can't. Our crew is leaving tomorrow night."

"Damn," the man says, scratching the back of his head in awkwardness before adopting a fake smile — one you choose to let slide. "I'm gonna miss you. After all, it's not every day that I get to meet such a fine young lady with the guts to traverse the terrors of the Grand Line. You take care of yourself, all right?"

"You flatter me," you giggle, cheeks tinged pink at the man's sincere compliment, "And likewise."

At the sound of your unrestrained laughter, Zoro pauses, deeply craving for the moment that he, too, becomes the recipient of your happiness.

SANJI

The person who flirts with you, his precious lady, better prepare for some ass-whooping.

Technically, Sanji can't call you his — not yet — though he has been thinking of the perfect way to confess to you.

Still, even though you're not officially together, he'll never not be feral when you're involved.

Deliberating for a few seconds before gesturing toward you, the stranger places his order with the barkeep and says, "And anything the pretty lady desires."

Pointer finger circling the rim of your shot glass in consideration, you smile at the stranger in gratitude. "In that case, I'll take another round then."

Exchanging a round of pleasantries and small talk, you and the stranger become reasonably familiar with one another.

Familiar enough to know that this man would rather whisk you away to a more private setting than converse with you under the public's watchful eye.

"I know of a better way we can spend the night together," he murmurs suggestively, low enough for you to hear despite the idle chatter in the background.

"Do you now?"

You weren't returning his flirtatious words, but you weren't exactly declining them either until you spot a tuft of blond hair in the corner of your vision, striding toward you with purpose.

When Sanji arrives, he's gushing praise and amorous advances, all for you. Ignored and uncomfortable with watching another man proclaim his underlying love and devotion to you, your newfound drinking buddy clears his throat to get your attention, earning a scornful glare from the cook.

"Who's this shitty and rude bastard?"

Unsurprising to you, Sanji doesn't even try to act civil. Your drinking buddy, however, is astonished by the cook's open hostility, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

Sanji doesn't buy the man's innocent charade, one eye squinting in distrust as he presses on, "I asked you a question."

Leaving out his invitation to you for more lewd nightly activities, your drinking buddy settles for a half-truth, "Just a guy she met at the bar."

Amused with the blond's jealous streak, you decide to cut in before things escalate beyond your control, "Any particular reason you're here, Sanji?"

At the sweet lull of your voice calling his name, the cook resumes his lovestruck behavior with a hint of seriousness when he whispers the sobering news to you, "Marines were recently spotted in town. We're leaving, my dear."

Seizing the opportunity, Sanji offers his hand, palm up, for you to take, and the significance of his action is not lost to you.

You recall his strict policy for only using his hands for cooking — how, as a child, Sanji found solace from abuse by preparing meals for his sickly mother, sparking his lifelong interest in the culinary arts.

Touched, you place your hand in his, a picture-perfect rendition of a prince charming whisking away his lovely bride-to-be. You tell him exactly that, and he graces you with an amused chuckle and a soft smile.

If only people knew the real reason you and him were fleeing the scene.

"Let me be your Mr. Prince then."

Your delicate hand dwarfs in comparison to his larger one, but that doesn't stop you from interlocking your fingers together like two intimate lovers.

Neither one of you says anything else, coming to the same silent conclusion that your growing feelings for each other would have to be addressed sometime soon.

[paperpocalypse]

white rabbit.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You”: 2. Tucking the sheets around them when they stir during the night.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,874 words

Warnings: Swearing, panic attack

His idiot siblings are going to give him a goddamn aneurysm.

The hum of the Commission briefcase – which is now in 2019 without a single person attached to it – rings in Five’s ears, mocking. He resists the urge to scream and tear all of his hair out. All that work – wasted!

“Now what?” Luther asks as Five paces up and down the alley.

What do you think, you doorknob? “Now nothing, Luther, all right? Make your peace with God.”

“What? What about Allison and Vanya?”

“Screw them both. They should have been here.” Five’s irritated pacing turns into a run, and he furiously kicks a cardboard box. God, the alley smells like vomit and shit. Everything is shit! “Ugh!”

“What about Diego?” Klaus slurs out his two cents from his place on the ground. Useless puke bag. “He's quite a responsible young man, no?”

“Something must’ve happened to them,” says Luther.

Fuck that. Wherever they are, they’ll be dead soon enough. Does nobody understand that? Dead! Dead! Dead!

“Screw Diego, all right? Screw everybody!” Five seethes. “[Y/n] and I were better off in the apocalypse.”

He turns on his heel, trying to suppress the rising panic in his bones. Something catches his arm.

Your brow is furrowed when he meets your gaze, mouth set in a thin, worried line. “Five,” you murmur, voice soft.

A tiny sting of regret worms its way into his chest at your expression. But then he thinks of the briefcase, and the Handler, and he quickly looks away.

“Five!” Luther admonishes, casting you a concerned glance. “Come on.”

His brother’s tone grates on the last of Five’s nerves. Gritting his teeth, he advances on the large man. Your hand slips away.

“You know what, Luther? It's every sibling for himself now.” Five throws his arms out in a grand gesture, then makes his way over to the door. “How ’bout that?”

Yanking the door open, he storms into the building.

Five tries to think as he stomps up staircase after staircase, but he can’t hold onto a thought for more than a few seconds before it disappears into a muddle of static. Concentrate. He just needs to get to the flat and think of a new plan, yeah, again, and try to save the world for the millionth fucking time – he stumbles over a step and then rights himself, legs numb. His chest feels tight. Come on. Keep moving. Think, think! God!

You’re calling his name. He doesn’t answer.

There is another way. A Hail Mary. But what if they waste that last chance too?

He swears underneath his breath, heart pounding. Blood roars in his ears. He tightens his grip on the railing and tries to even out his breathing.

Shit. Now is not the time. He needs to get out of this stairwell. Everything is so cramped and it’s not helping at all –

“… Five.”

You’re behind him, and then you’re in front of him, and Five meets a blurry set of eyes for the second time. Breathe. Breathe.

“Do you want to go back outside?” you ask softly.

No more stairs. “Flat,” he manages to reply, gesturing messily at the door a few feet away. Just somewhere with some space. In. Out.

You nod.

Several minutes later, he’s sitting on the bed in the room that Elliott had given him, blazer folded over the footboard, face damp with sweat and tucked into the crook of your neck as he completely breaks down.

Your hands treat him gently, rubbing circles into his back and wiping his face. He grips your shirt until his knuckles are white.

“You can get through this,” you say to him. “Just breathe with me, okay?”

Five tries. He really does. A shudder wracks his body. You inhale. He inhales. Exhale. Exhale.

“Good job.”

Something wet runs down his cheek. Fuck.

Both relief and shame fill him when you dry his cheek with your sleeve.

It’s absolute shit, however long it lasts – Five doesn’t know how long. Too long. But you’re there the whole time, holding him like you’ve done before, and it helps even though he’s too embarrassed to admit as much. You help a lot.

As the hammering in his chest finally slows to dull thuds, he takes in another deep, slow breath, and loosens his grip.

“I’ll get you some water?” you ask. He moves his head in some semblance of a nod. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Carefully, you detach yourself from him; the mattress creaks as you stand up and leave. Five swallows, staring down at his hands. The air feels slightly chilly on the side of his face that had been pressed against you, and he uses the comforter to quickly scrub away the dampness. His eyes ache.

You return soon enough with a glass of cold water. He sips slowly at first, then gulps the rest of it down. You put the empty glass onto the nightstand and brush his hair away from his eyes.

“You need to rest.”

The word brings a brief wave of longing. Then stress follows soon after, and Five steels himself. “I need to come up with another plan,” he mutters.

Even though he’s not looking at you, he feels the sudden burn of your gaze as you put your hands on his shoulders. “After you rest.”

“The apocalypse –”

“Is still a few days from now.” Your words take on a honeyed, coaxing tone. “There’s not much else we can do today, so sleep. Please. I’ll take care of things while you’re away.”

You press down, and despite his previous protest, Five doesn’t resist.

“… Thanks,” he vaguely hears himself mumble.

When his head touches the pillow, it feels as if all his muscles give way. His eyelids immediately feel heavy.

The last thing he’s aware of is you taking off his shoes.

—

Five is thoroughly conked out by the time you pull the blankets over him, and after giving his forehead a tender peck, you tiptoe out of the bedroom and shut the door with a quiet sigh.

Now on to business.

The rest of the Hargreeves siblings, as well as Sissy and Harlan Cooper, sit up slightly as you stride into the living room. You make a point of looking at each one of them individually, cross your arms, and then speak.

“I believe explanations are in order.”

Diego is the one who speaks first. “I ran into Lila,” he says, maintaining eye contact with you. “She tried to drag me to the Commission while I was burying Elliott.”

“I see,” is all you say. “Allison?”

“Some men came in and attacked Ray and me at the house,” she explained. “Otherwise, I would have been on time.”

“Did you kill them?”

“I made them leave.”

“All right. Vanya?”

“Carl called the police to stop us on the way here. I had to deal with them.”

Sissy and Harlan are not supposed to be here. Based on the hard look Vanya is giving you, she knows that. You close your eyes and breathe out softly.

“All right. Well, I can’t change the past, and the briefcase is already lost, so I’m not going to shout about how everything should’ve gone,” you eventually tell them, eyebrows drawn. “I just want to talk to you about Five.”

“What's wrong with him?” Diego asks.

Klaus answers for you. “He’s pissed.”

Luther agrees solemnly. You frown.

“He’s stressed. Yes, he’s angry, but he’s mostly stressed and worried sick.” You uncross your arms. “Do you know what he did to get that briefcase?”

The siblings blink at you.

“He assassinated the board of directors,” you say. “I know you don’t know much about the Commission, but what he did was a big deal and very dangerous. And he did it for you. He does everything for you, because you’re his family, and he cares about you.”

“He has a hard time showing us,” Diego mutters.

“And you guys seem to have a hard time showing him,” you return. “It just … it feels like you see the apocalypse as Five’s problem. And maybe mine as well, but not yours. I understand that you’ve had to adapt and make a life here, but none of you except for Sissy and Harlan belong in this time. Whatever we’ll have to do from now on will require all of us to stay together. We can’t risk another doomsday.”

“Doomsday?” Sissy speaks up, alarmed. “What’s this about a doomsday?”

Vanya shifts. “It’s …” She touches Sissy’s hand gently. “It’s kind of a long story. I’ll tell you later, okay? You and Harlan don’t have to worry about it. We’ll fix it.”

“We will,” you confirm, nodding at the pair. “As long as everyone does what they’re supposed to.”

Luther looks at you curiously. “Why are you telling us all of this and not Five?”

Why, indeed. Glancing back in the direction of the bedroom, you think of Five tucked away in bed for the first time since he landed in Dallas. Hopefully, he hasn’t snuck out. You’ll have to check on him soon.

“He’d be too stubborn to admit it. It took me a long time to find out how much he sacrificed to help me in the apocalypse. And the Commission.” You smile frankly. “What’s more, he’s resting now. It’s been a long two weeks.”

“Shit,” Klaus mutters. “I forgot about the time thing. The old man must be one apocalypse away from a heart attack.”

“Yes. He’s not invincible.”

Everyone looks down awkwardly.

“We’re sorry for not making it. We didn't know. And we’ll tell him that.” Allison folds her hands tightly in her lap. “So what do we do now?”

Again, not much. Shrugging, you gesture to the couches and chairs that they’re sitting on. “Rest. Get cleaned up. Five and I will need to explore our options once he’s awake.”

With that, you turn and start making your way back to the guest room.

Vanya’s tentative voice stops you when you’re halfway through the kitchen. “Let us know when he wakes up?”

The other siblings voice their agreement. A genuine smile touches your lips. “I will,” you answer, pleased.

The murmuring in the living room fades as you continue walking. When you reach the bedroom, you gingerly open the door and poke your head inside.

Five is exactly where you had left him, tucked in with the blankets up to his chin and dead to the world. Soft snores reach your ears as you creep closer. Good. Seating yourself at the edge of the mattress, you run your fingers through his hair.

For the rest of the evening and most of the night, you watch over Five, keeping quiet and re-tucking the sheets around him whenever he stirs. He doesn’t open his eyes once. His siblings drift in occasionally, individually or in pairs, each of them looking every bit like they’re entering a lion’s den until you smile and beckon them closer. None of them speak, but they don’t need to. You can only hope that Five won’t be too angry with them in the morning.

A lot of work will need to be done then. But for now, your partner needs to sleep.

[maulusque]

Clone genetic enhancement ideas

So the clones were genetically enhanced, but i don’t really see any writers (in fanfic or in published stuff) really exploring what that MEANS beyond “clone very stronk”. Here are some ideas that would actually make clones significantly different from just a regular-ass human in peak condition. 

-enhanced senses: eyesight, hearing, etc. I’m talking eyes like a HAWK

-better reflexes

-quicker information processing

-can hear sounds of higher and lower frequency than standard humans

-can see light of a broader spectrum than human standard

-learn quicker, retain information and skills better (potential problem: if you learn something the WRONG way, that way might stick really well)

-photographic memory (really useful for memorizing layouts and maps)

-immunity to various diseases

-can tolerate a wider range of temperatures and environments

-increased stamina and strength baseline. Clones can just run full-tilt for hours and hours and be like “ah a nice stroll”. Over long distances, they can out-pace jedi in the same way that humans can out-pace horses.

-higher tolerance of certain poisons/toxins (clones can straight-up drink ethanol, and get maybe a little tipsy)

-bodies respond quickly to physical stress, and slowly to the absence of it (basically, this means that physical conditioning results in stronger muscles and a stronger cardiovascular system really quickly, and it takes MUCH longer for a clone to lose strength and conditioning due to not exercising than standard humans. Think how much valuable training time is saved if they only have to go on a run like, once a month in order to stay in shape)

-increased ability to function through intense pain and acute injuries. Basically, semi-disabling the pain system so it’s less distracting. Probably not good for the survival of the individual in many situations, but an advantage on the battlefield. 

-heal faster and better, with fewer long-term complications. Clones can dislocate their shoulders and NOT have the joint be permanently fucked up, because the Kaminoans re-designed the whole damn thing to suck WAY less.

-actually, unique internal anatomy. There’s probably a lot about the human body besides the shoulder joint that is actually just really stupid, and something no intelligent designer would actually build. So the Kaminoans can fix a lot of that stuff. Better knees, maybe. Stronger ribs. Maybe Cody punches droids not just because he’s a mad bastard, but also because his metatarsals are literally as strong as steel. 

-Hearing loss/hearing damage? No problem, your ear can regrow those little hair-thingies that help you hear. 

-Of course, it takes energy to maintain muscle mass, which is why human bodies lose it if we’re not using it. Clones need significantly more calories than standard humans. However, their digestive systems are enhanced to extract calories and nutrients from food much more efficiently, so food goes much farther. Potential weird side effect: maybe clones only have to poop like, once a week?

-You could probably extend that into increased ability to tolerate long periods without food/on low rations, despite the increased need for calories. 

-wouldn’t it be NEAT if the kaminoans somehow designed self-repairing DNA. This would mean that others couldn’t take a DNA sample from a clone and modify it to create their own clones (basically, it protects their product. It’s like DRM for clones). This ALSO means that clones couldn’t get cancer, and that they’d be immune to radiation poisoning. So a clone could just walk up to a sphere of uranium at critical mass and pick it up. Maybe with oven mitts on if it’s hot. (this would also make it harder for a rapid-aging cure to be developed, but uhhhh fanfic writers find a way)

- “bred for obedience” I think most of this would have to be accomplished through tightly-controlled messaging and cultural norms as the clones grow up- basically, enshrining obedience as a desirable and almost sacred trait, to be prized higher than anything else, including the lives of your brothers. In the same way that we hear stories of people sacrificing their lives to protect their loved ones, the clones would grow up hearing stories of soldiers sacrificing their brothers’ lives to obey an order from a superior. 

-SOME of the “obedience” thing could be engineered, though. Humans are already super social, but it would probably make sense for the clones to have an even greater need for social bonds. This would make for greater teamwork and coordination, and better unit cohesion, since the clones would be more inclined to prioritize friendship/agreeing with someone over winning an argument. It would also make it so they’d bond with their natural-born generals more easily, so they would obey them not just because they’re supposed to, but because they’d be much quicker to see them as a friend, and someone who’s trust they want to earn, someone they want to incorporate into their group and make happy.

-consequently, clones who find themselves alone do NOT do well. Isolation has a much more profoundly negative impact on clones than on regular humans.

-Originally, clones designed to operate alone or in small teams would not have the social enhancement- ARC troopers, spec-ops teams, etc. There wouldn’t be much of a noticeable difference in everyday interactions, but they’d also be vaguely weirded out by what they interpret as aggressive friendliness from their brothers, and their brothers would think they’re a bit shy and standoffish. 

-actually this social modification would make it MUCH harder for clones to kill people. REGULAR HUMANS are already super bad at killing people- i remember reading this article about how as soon as soldiers have to point their weapons at actual people, their aim gets mysteriously much shittier. Even when compared to situations that are exactly the same, except they’re not shooting at other humans. So reconcile this how you will, idk.

-I imagine a lot of these enhancements would be accomplished not through DNA, but through microorganisms. Retroviruses could explain the DNA resistant to modification, and the increased healing speed, and possibly some disease resistance (do i know anything about retroviruses other than a vague concept of what they are? no i do not. will that stop me? also no.) Their metabolism can be partially explained through specially engineered gut microbes.

-not sure how they’d go about making clones “resistant to any stress”, because you can’t exactly turn off the trauma response in the brain without breaking a bunch of other things. They could probably do a bit of fiddling to make clones more resistant to chemical imbalances, and therefore more depression-resistant. I think most of the “stress-resistance” would have to come through training. Either they train the clones to basically suppress everything, which might work alright in the short term. OR they actually have systems in place that help prevent the development of things like PTSD and help treat trauma. Meaning the clones are literally trained in self-care, positive self-talk, talking about their pain with their brothers, and having community rituals around things like death and grief. I don’t think that’s super likely because one thing that’s integral to those concepts is the concept of “i am a person and i have worth, and if i feel angry about something bad happening, that is ok and valid” and considering that a whole lot of bad things happen to the clones all the time and their childhood is a whole boatload of bad all happening at once, i don’t think the kaminoans would want the clones realizing “hey wait a minute i’m a person and i don’t deserve to be treated this way and it’s ok for me to be mad at you”. 

- the clones were supposedly engineered to be “less aggressive” but i think there was literally nothing more to that than a cover story for the control chip. The clones wouldn’t be raised with a lot of the aggressive western concept of masculinity, where anger is the default reaction to like, everything, and your personal pride is extremely important and also fragile (no offense lmao). So you wouldn’t have clones posturing and getting angry over perceived slights and fighting each other all the time, like everyone in-universe apparently expects to be the case. Anyway, why would you want your soldiers to be less aggressive? they’re literally supposed to fight and kill the enemy. You want them fully capable of getting angry, anger is the human response to fear and danger that lets us DO something about it. 

-obviously the biggest component in how they behave would be how they are raised, but that’s an entirely different post

-Specializations! I imagine that initially, the Kaminoans had different clones with different traits engineered specifically to fill certain roles. However, as the war went on, they struggled to keep up with demand and had to start shoving clones into whatever roles were needed (hence Fives and Echo becoming ARCs, despite not being engineered as ARC troopers). 

-Command clones would have better abilities in the executive function parts of the brain that deal with extrapolation, planning ahead, spatial reasoning, etc. They’d also have increased visual pattern recognition (like a pigeon)

-search-and-rescue troops would also have the pigeon pattern recognition abilities. The coast guard literally strapped pigeons to helicopters who would tap a button when they saw orange in the water, because they were better at spotting it than humans. Pigeons can detect cancer in microscope images of cells, because they’re that good at pattern recognition

-Pilots would have hella reflexes, excellent spatial awareness and spatial reasoning skills, much greater ability to process visual information, stronger hearts and blood vessels (to resist greater Gs of force), and they’d also be much shorter, to better fit into a cockpit. Which reminds me of Axe, that poor bastard from Ahsoka’s squadron over Ryloth who was almost eight feet tall. rip poor Axe, how did you even become a pilot, you long bastard.

-medics who can smell certain diseases. If you want to get a little bit out there, make the medics able to purr so they can sooth stressed-out patients. 

-infantry would have even greater endurance than everyone else, as well as greater tolerance for, and ability to, remain constantly on alert.

-ability to fall asleep at will? that would be super dope.

-maybe more efficient sleep, so to an adult clone, 4 hours of sleep is genuinely sufficient.

-concept: clones can sort of turn down their bodily functions- slow their digestion, heart, lungs, the whole nine yards- to last longer in adverse conditions. Sort of a half-hibernation (or quarter hibernation- they’d still be able to talk and think, but they’d feel very lethargic). They wouldn’t be able to function very well, but it would be great for things like enduring intense cold, periods without food, low-oxygen environments, and it would be especially useful if you were wounded and waiting for help, since you could slow your circulation, meaning it would take you a lot longer to bleed out. This state could be triggered by a combination of physical actions such as sitting or lying still, breathing slowly and deeply, and focusing on slowing the heart down (humans can actually slow down their hearts consciously if you practice at it, this is basically that, but turned up to like 1100).

-one thing that never made sense to me was the whole “we’re running out of jango fett’s DNA, all the new clones won’t be as good, and we have to stop ventress from stealing the original DNA” because like, can’t they just, get the EXACT SAME DNA from the clones?? you know, the exact genetic copies? With all the enhancements already done? But now my idea is that the kaminoans have engineered the clones so their DNA straight up can’t be copied. The clone’s own body can obviously replicate it, but if you take a sample and try to extract the DNA, it just self-destructs or something. This is to protect their intellectual property, but also means that they literally have to use a couple of Jango Fett’s actual human cells for every single clone they make (and the fact that they then have to do all the above enhancements to every single embryo helps explain why there’s so many small mutations, such as hair color and height). So they kinda shot themselves in the foot with that one. 

-of course since things like ADHD and autism have a strong genetic component, the kaminoans could theoretically engineer those out of the clones, but actually FUCK THAT so for whatever reason, that’s just not something they are able to do, and neurodivergent clones are absolutely a thing

[bokettochild]

I Am My Master's Sword

So... I ended up having feelings about Fi. Mostly because of a a post that was shared before my Tumblr break about her. Like, we talk about how Fi might have felt when Wind pulled her, and I know- I know! I talk about him a lot but-

Legend.

Legend was a kid, maybe even younger than Time was, when he pulled the sword. And unlike in the other timelines where Fi's decision hurt the hero, in this one, he died!

Fi is dedicated to, and assigned, one task; to help her master protect the world. So how would it effect her to fail in that task and let her master die? Only to be given another one, just as young and small and weak, to try and guide?

Anyways, I caught Fi feels and wrote her a little thing. It is TTTB compliant, but you don't have to read that 30+ Chapter mess to read this.

Hope y'all enjoy!

Perhaps it was not the goddess’s will, but Fi had favorites.

Logically, a sword should not have any attachment to her many masters, she should have been cold and loyal to all of them, granting them her power and aid until they returned her to her rest, and then waited for the next one to come and draw her blade.

But even so, there were a few of her masters that she had an especial fondness, for, even despite her attempts to remove her own feelings from the equation.

Master. Matdas. Link. The Hero of the Surface and the Sky. Chosen Hero of Hylia herself, her dearest and closest friend, easily stood at the top of her list of favorite heroes. He was the one to forge her to her fullest power and stand by her side. Certainly, he was an eternally exhausted and somewhat easily distracted young man, but in her lengthy experience, it seemed that was simply Her Grace’s preference for heroes. The point was that her first Master was her favorite, and dearest of friends, and despite his flaws; his tardiness and inability to focus for long periods, his utter cluelessness when conversing with other individuals, and his (honestly endearing) love of danger; she adored him.

They could not remain together forever though. She may be her Master’s sword, but a knight only requires the use of his blade as long as he is in battle, and with Demise defeated, there was no need for her power to be continuously used. It was with great sadness that Master had laid her to rest, and had Fi ad a heart, she had little doubt that she would have shed many a tear at their parting.

She lay at rest for many years.

The hero after her Master had no need of her power, forging his own blade like his ancestor before him and defeating evil without her aid.

It was the hero that followed after that that weighed heavy on her mind.

The young Hero of Time was both her greatest regret and her greatest sorrow. A mere child, one too young for her voice to be of any aid to him, her calculations and estimates nothing in comparison to the orb of blue light -a fairy she had determined- that filled the air with chatter and guided the boy along. Had she had her way here, he too would have gone on without having to wield her power. Such a choice was not in her metaphorical hands however, and when small fingers had clasped her hilt the possibilities of the future had overwhelmed her.

In another world, the sleep she sent him into saved him. In another world, her strength was enough. In another time, the hero survived and moved on with his life. In another world he grew up and was married and was happy. The echoes of that world resounded within her, but they were not the life that she saw in this time. No. In this time, her blade clattered to the ground amid the churned-up dirt and seeping blood as a boy too young had released his last breaths in an agonizing scream.

The princess defeated the monster that was Ganon, sealing him away. The princess took her blade in her hands and carried it far away from the castle, hiding it in a grove with a bitter curse on her lips for the blade's failure to protect its master.

Still stained in blood and dirt, Fi took the admonition of Her Grace’s incarnate, fully aware of her own failure in the gristly matter.

She sat alone in that grove for centuries.

Trees rose and fell and hand after hand tugged at her blade, curious but unworthy to remove her. Children had played at her base, uninjured by her dull blade as stories were shared about where the youngsters thought the broken and neglected blade had come from.

“A princess put it there.” A pink haired child had told his playmates. “I saw her in a dream once.”

“A princess?”

“Sure, Link, an’ my Gran’s a duchess!”

The other children had laughed and teased, eventually tiring of their play and wending back to where their parent’s and families gathered on the edge of the grove, half-way through a journey, no doubt to a festival or event in castle town.

Fi had watched with a stiff little smile. They were precious beings, Her Grace’s children, she could understand why Master and the Spirit Maiden had been so dedicated to protecting these people if such small beings were possible. She enjoyed watching them, as much as a sword spirit could, perched, invisible to the mortal gaze, on the hilt of her blade, watching games of tag and hide and go seek with dull eyes.

None of them should have been able to see her.

Purple eyes met hers regardless, shining and curious, and so painfully innocent.

Had the spirit had a heart, it would have sunk in her chest at the smile and shy wave cast her way.

“By Miss Blue Lady.” The boy had whispered, darting off with his playmates back to their caravan.

And just like that, she’d known that evil would again rise soon.

None but a Hero of Hylia ought to have been able to see her.

She dreaded the day that the hands of the pink haired boy would wrap around her blade. Would he be a child still, like the last one? Would he have aged at least as much as her beloved Master? Still young, but old enough to at least bare the weight of her blade without stumbling? Would Her Grace be able to hold strong long enough that her Chosen Ones would be allowed to age enough to bare their heavy burden?

Her soul wavered when the blade was pulled at last, and had she been capable, she would have cried tears of sorrow when she saw her new Master.

He was still so small...

She was far too big for him, just as the hero before him, but the very thought of sending him off, putting him to sleep like she had the last one..... The Hero of Time’s soul would have stirred and roamed free to find and shatter her should she do so, she had little doubt. And she would wish it. Never again, never again would she trap a mind in a body too old, nor would she so illy prepare her master as she had her last.

In another time, another world, a place covered with waves as far as the eyes could see, her choice was the same, and when a small boy, only twelve or so years of age had come, she had breathed her blessing on him even as a soul foreign to the Hero’s Destiny had pulled her free. In that world, her Master had not fallen, but the world had been corrupted in the wake of their victory, and it was left without a guardian to save it from the evils of the world.

But in this world, she had held herself aloof from the young one in her care, careful to not impress on him the destiny he neither chose not embraced. Duty pushed this child, orders of one above him and the glimmer of hope that whatever sorrow burdened his young heart might be relieved. There was little she could say or do to him regardless, after all, she was not meant to be locked into stone, away from Her Grace’s power and touch, where her blade could not regain its power and where she grew weak and damaged.

There was little she could do to aid the little hero, her Young Master, but Hylia’s wisdom touched the young one’s mind and he, rather than forsaking her for a better blade, took especial care to clean and care for her blade, gathering supplies and taking her to a smithy who strengthened and brightened her blade, and who’s hands guided her Young Master to mend her ailments and restore her to power.

Again, under caring fingers and a soulful gaze, she was restored to her true strength, and when little fingers had set to work, etching away a name in her steel, she’d never done a thing to stop them. He had never seen, but she had smiled at the little one as he looked down at his work with a firm nod.

His smile was so much like Master’s own, it made her spirit sing.

Her new master, her little master, the youngest she had known yet (in this time and in this world) was a good one. He tended her blade with all the care due by a young smithy, and even after he had replaced her to her resting place, his enemy defeated and his world saved, he’d taken care to visit and tend to her blade.

While he worked, he’d sing.

Sometimes the Ballad of the Goddess that he hummed, sometimes an old song she didn’t know. Sometimes he’d chatter, telling her about his day and how the world was. About the apple orchard beside his house and how it prospered, about the princess that was his sister, and about the things they’d seen on their journey.

Unlike before, violet eyes did not rest on her when she perched on the sword’s hilt, attentive and silent, but that did not stop her from watching him as he attended to her blade and the stone it was set in, as he cared for the ground and the area around it with all the worry and knowledge of a budding gardener.

But then he had stopped coming, and only the princess had come to her once and again, until Farore’s Oracle herself came, taking her blade in hand and whisking them away to a faraway country where her little hero, a bit older and a bit more experienced, waiting to take her on another adventure.

He had had help this time, there were friends and a mentor at his back as he fought the corrupted Golden Goddess that had been Nayru, but now acted only as a puppet to the evil Veran. There was no small amount of pride in the spirit’s soul as she watched him lead an army to destroy Ganon once more, to defeat Koume and Kotake and destroy the Tower of Evil that Veran had caused to be built.

Adventure after adventure, she had watched her little hero grow in skill and body. But with each task, each fateful quest, she had seen light leave violet eyes until they were hard and cold as stone. Eyes that lacked the purity and innocence to see her when at last her strength had fully returned. He no longer spoke to her, even as his hands worked dutifully over her blade. Only a set jaw and harsh stare met her gaze when she tried to catch his eye again, and again the spirit’s lack of a heart to break was felt as she watched bitterness and anger take over the boy as he cast aside any faith he may have once held for the Oracles and Her Grace Hylia.

Like a mother whose child has gone astray, she mourned, watching as task after task had consumed the innocent child and fueled the anger of the troubled teenager.

Sword spirits were not meant to have feelings, or to love and grow fond, and perhaps this was why. Because any Hero who must wield his blade for too long will change and grow callus and bitter towards those he loves, and she would have to watch the life fade from them as anger took hold. Hylia had attempted to grant her peace, to save her from the curse that was feeling, but she had pushed just enough to taste it, and now it was hers and a curse that weighed heavily on her as she was carried to and fro on quest after quest after quest.

Fi should not have known all of this, should not have known the heroes that she would meet in the future. Her memories should not have swum to her as nine heroes gathered, each baring his own blade as once more her Master had drawn her from her place to join with his fellow heroes to fight an evil that danced through time with no regard for its sacred pattern and the delicate lines cast between worlds. By all calculations, she ought not be able to know each in all of their individual splendor and lack thereof. She should not have known that the last of their number was once the youngest to wield her blade, or that in his time her strength was nothing to the world it was needed to save.

She shouldn’t have known that the boy’s father was a knight who’s power had been corrupted with her strength, a man brought near to ruin in her desperate attempt to right the wrongs she had done to those before him. Her strength was returned in his time, and it had nearly saddled her with the weight of another hero’s death.

She shouldn’t have known the beast that tamed himself with her power, the wolf that stirred inside the heart of a Hylian who had drawn her strength to himself in a time of shadows and twisted evils that spread far beyond the corrupted worlds and into Her Grace’s blessed land itself.

And there was her Master, and the child hero who she had killed and saved and ruined and lost all at once, alive from the time he had moved on from when he had left her yet returned her, his life tangled in the web of time and leaving holes and breaks across its surface. There too was her young master, angry and bitter and harsh, and two heroes whose fingers had never borne her strength; a hero whose power had forged his own blade and another who’d yet to find her in his desolate world.

Could a sword spirit sing in more than battle, she would have cried her thanks to the goddesses for a chance to see all of her masters, both claimed and not, gathered. Something stirred in her, although what it was was anyone’s guess, and no calculations and algorithms could determine its source, but Fi would smile as she danced in battle on her Master’s fingertips, protecting those that she had failed and who had been called too young, with the aid of one who she had grown and learned with.

It was her honor to aid them, to travel at their backs and to protect them from the darkness that followed and attacked them. To cleanse evil from their forms and return them too how they ought to have been. But her joy came when at last she could see her heroes connect.

A battle gone wrong, a misstep from one of the heroes and Master had been gravely injured, left unable to carry her and leaving her to be held and wielded by another until he was healed. There was arguing for who had a right, for who had a cause and who would wield her best, but at last she was landing in familiar hands, ones that fingered the etching on her hilt with a knowing and bitter look, but who treated her kindly as he pulled her baldric and sheath over his thin shoulders and followed along behind.

She should have kept silent, she ought to have. She had not spoken to any but the first and the last of her many masters, but she was unable to prevent it when she heard the thoughts of her Young Master.

It’s not like Sky’s actually just my Great-grandfather or something like that, he’s just... I just... I don’t want him to scold me is all. The royal family doesn’t last that long, Hyrule is wrong.

Since watching Master re-unite with the Spirit Maiden, she had not known such curiosity and -maybe it was joy- at hearing the thoughts of one of the heroes that had wielded her.

“So, you are Master’s offspring?”

Despite how the young hero -one of her favorites and the dearest to her soul, beside his ancestor in what might pass as her heart- might complain, she knew he found comfort in hearing her voice. It brought something to stir within her as well.

After centuries of silence, yet from master’s time no time at all, she was freed from silence and able, again, to converse with one of those to which she had been bound for eternity, and through him, Master.

Sword Spirit’s weren’t supposed to have favorites. But the pink-haired child that bore the Gift of Hearing and Understanding, be it animal, plant or spirit voices that he spoke to, was the connection to herself and her Master, a Link, if she might dare jest, to both her past and future, and to the heroes who she had been promised to protect. He stood beside the Chosen Hero in her memory, a favorite. And she too must have been dear to him, why else would he take such care to keep his mark on her hilt, a poorly scrawled name, only four letters, but ones that meant everything.

L-I-N-K.

The mark of ownership. A claim. A promise, and one that she would also keep and honor in kind.

She was her Master’s Sword, but she was also the blade of his descendent, and if pride could be felt by the Goddess’s blade, then Fi would have been bursting with it.

[starlessea]

𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Prologue 0. Closing Time

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 6286

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury

The sky was empty — save for one bird.

Daryl watched it fly above him, so close to the ground that he could make out the beating of its wings and swore he saw individual feathers flutter in the breeze.

His fingers itched over his crossbow, as he contemplated shooting it down from the sky and plucking it clean. He'd have something to eat then, at least. Though, for some reason, Daryl Dixon couldn't bring himself to let loose his arrow, watching as the bird soared overhead — and disappeared beyond the trees.

The man sighed as he kicked up some loose stones with the toe of his boot. What a waste, he thought, before trudging through the field once again.

The sky remained cloudless for the rest of the day, existing as a pale, washed-out grey that made Daryl feel uncomfortable as he hunted. The game must have felt the same, since the deer he'd been tracking made itself scarce, and the string of squirrels hanging from his belt seemed no heavier than it had done when the sun rose that morning.

Still, he trekked onwards over the thick, winding grass and through damp forest overgrowth. He was nearly back at the quarry already, but he hardly had anything to show for it. A few measly rodents and a sprained ankle were barely worth his trip in the first place; they sure as hell wouldn't be enough for all of the mouths he now had to feed.

Daryl cursed at himself for hesitating to shoot that bird straight out of the sky, and clip its wings. It wasn't much, but maybe it would have lasted a day if he was lucky. Still, there was no use wondering now, since it had swooped so close to him that he almost felt the downward draft on his cheek — and then he let it fly away.

He thought that it had been a jaeger; it definitely looked like a seabird that had veered too far from the shore. It was a gull with a white breast and dark, blackish feathers — and a wingspan that made sure you couldn't miss it.

He remembered you pointing one out to him, at 3am, parked up on that deserted beach as the two of you stared out into the rocking ocean.

"Ya thinkin' 'bout 'er again, baby brother?"

Daryl could hear Merle's voice taunt, in the deepest, darkest corners of his thoughts.

"Tha' lil' birdie of yours?"

He quickly shook his head — even though it was the truth.

It had been Daryl's own mind that conjured up those words, after all. Merle wasn't actually here. He was probably back at the campsite, lazing about and leering after women far too good for a beaten-up redneck like him.

Though, funnily enough, Merle had said the exact same thing to Daryl when he noticed his gaze settling over the new bar server, who swiped away the froth spilling over from their draught beers. Merle had given him even more of an earful when he realised that his younger brother was waiting for her shift to end.

Daryl took a deep breath, before rolling his neck to try and relieve the tension that had built up there. Once his mind drifted into thoughts of you — even if only for a split second — it often sank to the point of no return.

You were all consuming; you had been from the first time he laid eyes on you in that old, country auto-repair shop.

He remembered the way your voice chirped like a bird's, despite the curses that often fell from your lips.

You even made those sound sweet.

And he could also recall the way you yelled over the rumble of his bike engine, and competed with the screeching that came from his tyres losing their grip on the worn-out tarmac.

You'd told him that it felt like you were flying — and that was probably the reason why Daryl Dixon couldn't shoot that jaeger.

Then, the man heard something louder than he had done since the world ended — and suddenly, the sky was no longer empty.

There was an explosion, and that dull greyness was set alight with brilliant hues of red and orange. It made fire start to rain down upon Daryl, who could only stand and watch below. Debris fell out of the sky like a meteor shower, landing beyond the trees in the distance — to a place that Daryl couldn't quite make out, no matter how much he squinted.

The air became full with the sounds of scraping metal and flickering flames that caught the leaves and made them burn up like the end of a cigarette. Daryl felt his heart race as the adrenaline pumped its way through his veins, and made him flinch each time something crashed heavily to the ground.

There was often a moment in a person's life where their brain got kick-started into gear — and they awoke from whatever auto-pilot they'd been functioning on until that point.

For most, it was probably a mundane milestone like marriage or parenthood.

For others, it might have been a life or death situation that made them re-evaluate their perspective.

For some, it had only happened when the world actually ended, and the apocalypse began.

And perhaps, if Daryl had been a smarter man, it would have been this instant — as he gazed up at the sky and watched it burn above him. Maybe this was his second life-changing realisation; maybe he was lucky enough to get two.

But, for Daryl, the first had just been a regular Tuesday.

The garage was sticky hot that day. It was the kind of heat that made you sweat no matter how many fans you had blowing — since Old man Dean was too cheap to install air conditioning. His boss was a bit of a stickler for paying his bills, and nit picky with his nickles, but he'd always been kind to Daryl.

That being said, working as a mechanic wasn't exactly where Daryl had pictured himself at his age; but then again, he couldn't really picture himself anywhere at all. He felt like that last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, which didn't quite fit in with the others — the one that you had to bend into shape just to make it work.

Sure, he enjoyed seeing the different bikes roll in and out of the shop — those models he would never be able to afford — and Daryl appreciated having a few extra dollars in his pocket for when Merle raided his savings to score some pot.

Besides, there wasn't much else to do in the boonies. Daryl's old man once told him that the only interesting thing to rear its ugly head out of Georgia's backyard in the last fifty years was Dean's Auto Shop. That's probably why Daryl started working there in the first place, as a summer job when he was teenager — and had never really left since.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, his old man had been right about one thing — despite the bastard never catching on to the role of father. He'd been right about the shop being the only interesting thing around.

Because it was the place where he met her.

And then she became the only thing in that small town even worth being interested in.

Daryl didn't hear a car pull up into the shop, but he heard the mumbling outside from where he sat in the breakroom — chewing on some of Dean's leftover pizza that was bordering on stale.

"Dixon, get your ass out here for a second, would you?" the old man yelled, banging on the thin wall that separated them with his fist.

Daryl cursed below his breath, throwing the rest of his food into the trash and dusting off his hands over his jeans. He stepped out into the shop, and was met by an unfamiliar face — looking over at him curiously.

He suddenly felt unexplainably nervous, and dropped his head down to his feet as though it were a reflex he didn't know he had.

"This is your guy," he heard Dean say, before letting out one of his usual chesty coughs.

The man smoked a pack a day too much — and that was coming from Daryl.

"Owner of that bike you've been eyeing, too," he went on.

That caught Daryl's attention, and he instantly glanced up at the woman in question. She was breath-taking, but she also looked very much out of breath. She seemed as though she had run here, despite the Georgia heat.

"You ride?" he asked, but his gruff voice made it sound like more of a demand.

He grimaced at his own tone, but the woman didn't seem bothered by it in the slightest.

She laughed, and it sounded like nothing he'd ever heard before. "I wish," she said, running her palm along the polished metal and tracing her finger over that shiny logo.

Usually, Daryl would bark at anyone who touched his bike, and Dean seemed as though he expected him to do just that — from the way he raised an eyebrow at the daring woman, too oblivious for her own good.

Except, Daryl stayed quiet.

"Was never allowed within a mile radius of one," she went on, before turning back around to grin at Daryl like it was easy. "My folks were scared I'd take off into the sunset, never to be seen again."

He could relate to that. After all, it was exactly what he and Merle had done as soon as they'd gotten the chance.

"Mhm," he hummed back, before glancing over at the car parked in the middle of the shop. "She's pretty."

It was a steel blue colour — would definitely benefit from a lick of paint, but still pretty nonetheless. The tread looked good on the tyres, and Daryl couldn't see any signs of the rusting those models were prone to. Someone had taken good care of it.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, and suddenly Daryl was reminded of just how bad he was with words.

He cleared his throat, and ran his hand over the hood.

"Yer car," he explained, "'69 Chevy Camaro?"

Daryl asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Oh yeah, that," she replied, sending him an apologetic look. "It's my grandpa's, so we're going to have to be real discreet about this situation over here."

Daryl raised an eyebrow as she beckoned him to the other side of the car, crouching down near the wheel arch.

"Some bastard left a nail in the road, and I ran straight through the thing like it was a stop sign," she grumbled, pointing out the puncture.

Daryl almost laughed at that — but he was still much too jaded from being caught in the middle of his break.

The woman stood back up and toed the deflated tyre with her boot, scowling at the sight of it.

"I know you're closing soon, but I had to push it half a mile just to get here," she said, and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

Suddenly, her appearance made sense. Since he'd first laid eyes on her, all she'd done was tug at the collar of her vest, and try to stand in front of one of those poor excuses for a fan. But even then, Daryl couldn't quite believe her story.

"Ain't no way ya pushed that thing 'ere by yerself." The words left his mouth before he could consider them twice.

And the look she shot Daryl in return made him want to take them straight back.

But then, she smiled.

"I'm stronger than I look," she protested, leaning against the hot car. "You can ask the dozen assholes who catcalled me on the way but never offered their help."

This time, Daryl did let out a chuckle.

"Damn lucky y'ain't pass out," he quipped back, "heat's no joke."

She grinned again, and Daryl wondered whether she had an endless supply — or if she'd saved them just for him.

"Tell me about it," the woman teased. "Never liked visiting Georgia because of it."

Then, it all made sense to Daryl — the reason why she intrigued him so much.

"Y'ain't from 'round here, are ya?" he asked, surprising himself.

Usually, he couldn't give a 'rat's ass', as Dean called it, about anyone who stumbled into their shop. Never did they get more than a half-hearted greeting from Daryl, or a grunt as he told them to mind their head on that low door frame (she didn't have that problem). Though today, he seemed oddly talkative.

"Haven't seen ya before," he added.

The woman folded her arms over her chest.

"Would you recognise me if you had?" she asked.

"E'erybody knows e'erybody in this place," he answered. "I'd remember if I saw ya cross the street."

It was partially the truth. Daryl knew most people — but he only bothered to remember a select few.

"Moved here last week," she caved, proving him right. "I'm keeping my grandparents company watching daytime cable and doing grocery runs."

Daryl smirked. "An' runnin' over nails with their car, apparently."

"That, too," she confessed.

It was silent for a few seconds, and Daryl realised that he should probably give her a quote for the job. Though, she interrupted him before he could.

"Listen, your new neighbour would be really grateful if you could cut her a break," she said, eyeing the Camaro like she was considering whether it was even worth the hassle. "The old man's going to kill me if I come home on foot tonight."

Daryl knew what she was asking. The notice in the shop window made it clear that they'd be closing in half an hour; Daryl had been all but ready to flip the sign himself. Before she'd arrived, he'd even dared to think that he could shut early — and possibly get to crack open a cold beer and enjoy the breeze of his porch.

He sighed.

"I'll see what I can do," Daryl mumbled, "but I ain't makin' no promises," he warned — as he caught the way her eyes lit up at his words.

But that was a lie. Daryl knew he wouldn't let himself go home until it was finished.

The woman was utterly gleeful. He watched her smile much too widely for her face, and for a moment Daryl thought that she might even jump at him. But she seemed to catch herself at the last second, and abruptly stopped.

She didn't falter long, though. "Thank you, thank you so much!" she said, excitedly, before pausing to tap at her jean pockets. "I don't have any cash on me for a deposit, but I'm heading to work now."

She looked sheepish as she explained herself.

"I'll come straight back and pay in full," she added, trying her best to convince him.

Daryl narrowed his eyes like he didn't quite understand. Then he did, and he laughed properly.

"Deposit?" he asked, shaking his head. "City girl, here we jus' keep yer vehicle if ya can't pay."

The woman's expression was priceless. She looked as though she couldn't figure out whether he was joking or not, and stared at Daryl with her mouth slightly agape as she debated which it was.

He couldn't watch any longer.

"Where ya workin'?" he asked.

Then, he cursed himself for doing so. Time was ticking on, and he already had to stay overtime because of his inability to say no. Well, usually he had no problem with the word; it just seemed like it was stuck in his throat today.

"Joe's bar," she replied. "It's a few blocks over and-"

"I know Joe's bar," Daryl interrupted.

Everybody knew Joe's. It was the only place around that sold a decent draught beer. He'd been going there since he was a teenager — younger than he should have been, but old enough to know better.

"Me an' my brother go there a lot, but I ain't seen you 'round."

She nodded.

"Only started a few days ago. Hopefully they don't fire me for being late."

Daryl glanced at the clock. It was approaching his closing time and her opening one.

"Ya better get runnin', Camaro," he noted, tapping at his watch that didn't even work. "Rush hour soon."

The woman narrowed her eyes at the nickname. Daryl didn't know her real one yet, and felt like it was too late to ask for it. He'd have to catch a glimpse of Dean's log book later to find out.

"Will do," she replied with a smile. "Thanks again, Dixon."

Though Daryl couldn't quite work out how she knew his name, either.

He watched her scurry about collecting her things, and walked her to the entrance. The sun was starting to set — leaving the sky a pinkish orange that only made him squint the more he looked at it. He held the door open for the woman, and heard Dean snort from the back of the shop. But the way she thanked him made it worth the teasing.

"Take care of that sixties Honda," she winked, "she's a real beauty."

Daryl was surprised that she knew the model of his bike, considering she'd never even ridden one.

"If only ya knew," he mumbled back as he saw her off. "Will take ya for a ride one time if yer willin'."

She stopped in place. Daryl didn't know why he said that. It had just slipped from his mouth like oil from a can.

The woman laughed and rolled her eyes like she didn't believe him.

"That's what they all say."

Then, she started to jog down the street — just like she said she would — and Daryl thought her crazy for even attempting it in this midsummer Georgia weather. That woman had entered the shop like a whirlwind, and when she left Daryl couldn't remember what he'd even been doing before.

Dean cleared his throat and threw a rag at him that he barely managed to catch.

"Keep it in your pants, boy."

Daryl scowled at the man; he knew him better than that. So, he didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply, and instead got started on setting the Camaro up on a jack.

"She's a beauty, I get it," Dean went on, despite his silence. "Her type don't belong in a place like this, that's for damn sure."

Daryl had to agree with him there. He'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in the wing mirror of her car and grimaced. He had grease on his face, and part of him cursed Dean for not telling him before he'd left the breakroom.

"But you know Mike and Doreen?" the old man asked, and Daryl nodded. "That's their granddaughter."

Daryl furrowed his brow — not realising he'd done it until he caught himself in the glass once again. Mike was a hard man, the type to straighten out any kinks in a person with brute force and that baby boomer spite.

"She may be real pretty, kid, but that one's trouble," Dean noted, confirming his suspicions.

He ignored the way he called him 'kid'. The old man still hadn't grown out of the habit — despite Daryl being well beyond his teenage years now.

"Trouble?" he repeated, like he couldn't quite comprehend the word being associated with someone like that.

Dean chuckled — but it turned into one of those coughs that made Daryl wince.

"Maybe more so than you," he said. "Got kicked out of the military, I heard."

Daryl spat at the floor, and Dean laughed again. They both hated those military dogs who often paraded through their town, looking at them as though they were trash beneath their government-issued boots.

But, if she'd been kicked out then maybe they could find some common ground.

Old man Dean wagged his finger at him, recognising Daryl's no-good expression; he'd become familiar with it by now, from all the times he'd worn it throughout the years.

"So don't go losing your head over her, Dixon," he cautioned, pretending not to know how good Daryl was at throwing caution to the wind.

"And remember to close up before you leave."

But it was too late.

Daryl had already lost his head, and his heart — but he wouldn't know that the latter was missing for a very long time.

You ran the cloth along the oak bar surface, wiping away any sticky beer rings that had been left there.

This is why we have coasters, you sighed.

It had been a slow Tuesday night, but you'd somehow still been roped into working the close. You tried to tell your boss that you were having car troubles, and had plans to stop by the garage on your way home — but he seemed to prioritise his own date over yours.

Well, you wouldn't exactly call giving the local mechanic his cheque a date; usually, you didn't have to pay for those. But you couldn't deny how it had made you feel when he smiled that smile your way — so small that you'd almost missed it — before you took off running out the door.

It gave you whiplash.

Perhaps he was just being friendly. But, then again, he didn't seem like the naturally friendly type. You shook your head, throwing the beer-soaked rag into the sink. You didn't trust that man in the slightest.

That wasn't a new development, really; you didn't trust most men. And, you often found that the ones who made your heart race like that were the worst of them all. He was trouble, that one, and you'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

You untied the double knot of your apron, and folded it up neatly. There were a few whiskey stains on it — you'd caught a whiff of that top-shelf scent a few times now — but you were already too late to even consider putting it in the wash. Instead, you left it at the end of the bar, and swapped it out for the ring of keys lying there.

It was closing time, and you prepared yourself to run three blocks in the dark. You stepped out into the night, feeling the cool breeze on your cheek as opposed to the midday heat that had been there when your shift started. You flipped the latch and turned the key in the lock until you heard it click.

Then, you held them between your knuckles so that the jagged edge poked out.

"Ya done for the night?" a voice came from the shadows, and your heart dropped.

That brief second lasted a lifetime as the blood rushed to your ears like a strong current through running water, and your grip tightened over those keys. But then, you noticed the reflection in the glass panels of the door — and relaxed.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me," you scolded the man, "thought you were a dejected patron tryna jump me or something."

Perhaps he was; you still didn't know any better.

Dixon was leaning against that dingy brick wall, opposite the back door of Joe's Bar. You didn't even know what that other building was — but some sketchy figures usually loomed about it, so you tried to stay clear.

Maybe he didn't get the memo, you thought.

"Tha' happen before?" the man asked back, casually.

Though, the dim street lights overhead illuminated his face, and you caught a glimpse of his serious expression before he let it drop. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers — almost smoked down to the butt already — and it made you wonder just how long he'd been waiting for you.

"Maybe once or twice," you laughed, but it didn't sound as natural as you had intended.

You noticed the man's eyes flicker down towards the keys held between your knuckles, and you quickly slipped them into your jean pocket — hoping that he wouldn't pry. Luckily, he didn't seem like the type to unnecessarily butt into other people's business.

The smoke trailed from his lips and caught the stark light of the street lamp. He almost looked cold — bathed in that bluish tint which made those cigarette fumes seem nearly luminescent.

"You here to make sure I don't run off with your paycheck?" you teased, fishing out the wad of bills from your back pocket.

You waved them at him, and considered how precarious the situation may seem to an onlooker if they happened to pass by. The man looked as though he felt the same, since he quickly glanced over his shoulder down the alleyway — checking to make sure you were alone.

"Don't worry, Dixon, I busted my ass tonight just so I could leave you a nice tip," you said with a smile, handing the money to him.

He took it, slowly, as though he had to remind himself what it was even for.

Then, he let that cigarette butt fall to the floor, and stamped it out with his boot — before dragging it along the concrete until it was nothing but embers.

The man shook his head at you. "'M here on behalf of the welcome committee."

You snorted as you processed his words, and followed him out of that narrow alleyway into the main street.

"Bullshit," you called, "as if-"

You rounded the corner after him, and stopped. He was there, leaning against that pristine sixties Honda bike — spare helmet in hand.

It was parked up on the sidewalk, polished metal glinting in all its glory under those neon lamps. Dixon was almost camouflaged against it — his black leather jacket also speckled with white light. He held out that helmet, as if it were an invitation he was waiting for you to accept.

But he seemed shy — as though acutely aware that it was only an invite, and nothing more. So, you took it, and shook your head as you realised that it wasn't his spare helmet he had offered you; it was his only helmet.

"Said I'd take ya," he murmured, fastening the strap gently under your chin.

It was too big, so the man compensated by tying it tighter until you felt like your jaw was wired shut. But, you just smiled.

"An' I ain't no liar," he said when he was done, and kicked his leg over the bike.

Then, you sped off into the night.

You yelled over the sound of the engine for him to go faster, and laughed as you had to spit out the stray hairs that had blown into your mouth. Your clothes whipped in the wind, too, and you clung to the man in front of you as though you were afraid they might catch the draft, and make you fly away. It was electrifying; your whole body felt like pure static as you rode past shop displays and windows that made your reflections look like hazed blurs.

That whole trip felt like a hazed blur, really, because suddenly you were there.

"Where are we?" you asked, unsure of where 'there' even was. "Why'd we stop?"

You pulled the helmet from your head and cocked your leg over the bike. The man let out a chuckle at the sight of your hair, sticking up from the static — as though lightning might strike at any moment.

"Smoke break," Dixon grumbled, before coaxing out the squashed cardboard packet from his jeans. "You want one?" he asked, offering it to you.

You shook your head; you didn't smoke.

He shrugged in response, cupping his hands to his face to get a flame from his lighter. You left him to it, and turned away from the bike to catch the view.

And what a view it was, indeed.

You hadn't even noticed the sounds of the lapping ocean waves before you saw them. The cliff overlooked the beach below, desolate, with a high tide that drew the shore into you. Your grandmother had told you about this place once, on the phone a few months back as she tried to sell rural Georgia to you.

It wasn't like you were given much of a choice, anyway.

But now that you'd been shipped out here — against your will, no doubt — you had to admit that she'd been partly right. It was breath-taking. Back in the city, a place like this would be littered with beer cans and tacky, disposable barbeques within a week of someone posting about it online. Here, however, it looked untouched.

It was as though the two of you were the first to ever set foot here, on this particular crag that overlooked the waves — leaving your footprints alongside tyre treads for the next pioneers to discover.

You glanced back at Dixon over your shoulder — who was busy trying to look as though he wasn't already looking at you — and smiled.

He was one hell of a welcome committee.

Daryl almost choked on the fumes of his cigarette — letting out a cough that reminded him of the way old man Dean spluttered in the mornings. He really needed to kick that habit, he thought, and snubbed out his cigarette on the ground.

Then, you scowled at him, so he picked the butt back up and stuffed it into his pocket, grimacing at the thought of having to clean it up later.

He had been lying about the smoke break, really, but then he needed to carry out his excuse. Initially, he'd only thought about picking you up from the bar and offering you a ride back to the shop. He hadn't the slightest clue of how that plan had become this.

Somewhere along the way, Daryl might have accidentally taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the most scenic place he would think of. Stupid damn street signs, he cursed, as though he hadn't driven those roads a hundred times before.

Camaro seemed to call him out on his bluff, too, since she turned to face him and immediately shook her head.

"You're lying," she said, as though she were certain, "but the view is extraordinary, so I'll forgive you just this once."

Daryl swallowed thickly, tasting the tobacco that had made his throat so dry. For someone who claimed himself not to be a liar, that was all he seemed to be doing today.

Then, he watched you make your way towards the edge of that cliff, like you couldn't even hear him warning you to be careful. It was like you weren't paying him the slightest attention. Daryl was used to that from women — but somehow, this was different.

You didn't look down on him, nor at him with any hint of prejudice for wearing jeans still coated in oil, and boots he'd had to tape the soles of just to keep them together. In fact, you weren't looking at him at all. You seemed far more concerned with the stars that flickered in the night sky above you, but at the same time grateful towards the man for having brought you to them.

"You treat all your customers like this, Dixon?" you asked him.

He watched you turn around and look at him like you'd only just remembered that he was there. But, then you beamed a smile at him so bright that it put the stars to shame — and made all of your other ones look dim in comparison.

"Y'ain't special," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Jus' given' ya a lift home 'cos Dean told me to."

Though, Dean had left the shop hours ago.

Daryl watched you laugh like you'd caught him out one more time.

"There you go again," you said, teasingly. "Do you ever tell the truth?"

No, he didn't. He always tried to, but oftentimes it never did him any good. The people of this town had already made the assumption that he was a natural born liar. You were the first person to ever make the distinction between his white lies and those other types.

All his life, Daryl had been pigeon-holed into the role of good for nothing redneck, and had only recently graduated to the slightly less stereotyped town mechanic. But that night it was as if someone, for the first time, tried to get a peek at whatever was underneath.

Old man Dean was right. You were trouble — but not for the reason he had said. You were trouble because you seemed entirely unaware of your place in the world, and it made Daryl start to question his own. You seemed nice — perhaps even lovely — but Daryl never trusted those types. He knew you were far too good to be wasting away the early hours of the morning with the likes of him — and it left him wondering what exactly you wanted.

You'd already paid for his services, after all.

"Thank you for letting me see the stars again," you breathed, stretching your neck which ached from staring at the sky. "It's been a while."

Back then, Daryl didn't quite understand what that meant. He'd thought perhaps that you'd been talking about city pollution.

On the way back, Daryl felt you cling onto him tightly as he drove through empty roads, and passed the old, flickering street lights that blinked like camera flashes. But, when his fingers accidentally brushed up against yours, as you both reached for the shop door, you pulled your hand away.

It had only been a random Tuesday — that had eventually rolled into a Wednesday by the time he'd gotten you back into your repaired Camaro — but that was the moment in his life where Daryl felt like he had finally woken up.

But even awake, he often found himself lost in daydreams of the woman who crash landed into his life, and disappeared from it just as quickly as she came.

Daryl followed the trail of debris that had fallen from the sky, as though he were tracking some giant, metal bird. He didn't want to stick around too long, given that the noise had probably attracted every damn walker in the area; he just hoped that he was still far enough away from camp that they wouldn't be drawn there.

He stepped over the hunks of hot wreckage, some of it still ablaze, until he eventually came across something soft and not made of metal.

It was that jaeger. It was dead.

It looked as though it had been struck straight out of the sky. Its feathers lay scattered around it — the white breast now red with blood — and its wing was bent at a crooked angle, broken.

Daryl scowled. If he'd known that it was going to have such a meaningless death, then he would have shot it himself. Though, he still didn't add the bird to his string of dead animals; he thought that it had suffered enough.

He continued onwards through the brush until he stumbled across what he'd been looking for. But even as he saw it with his own eyes, Daryl couldn't quite believe it. Before him was the husk of a downed helicopter, burning in the middle of the forest.

Immediately, he ran to it, tripping over the wreckage as it got thicker and harder to navigate.

Though, there was no pilot inside — only radios and machinery parts that Daryl didn't know the names of. They screeched high frequency sounds as they caught on fire, and it made his ears ring the longer he listened.

So, he turned back.

That was when he saw it — them — a few meters away. His stomach dropped. Guess that's the pilot, he thought, looking up at the body tangled in the trees.

He'd never seen a parachute in real life before — only ever in the movies. He'd also never understood how that flimsy material could stop someone from plummeting to their death.

Well, in this case it hadn't.

The pilot was dangling from one of the branches, all caught up in those wire cables like a fish on a line. The limbs were contorted awkwardly, and Daryl swallowed thickly at the sight of their arm which had definitely been broken — reminding him of that miserable jaeger's wing.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave. The smell of burning rubber and the white noise from those radios would probably keep him up for the next few nights, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave, but then the body spoke to him.

"Dixon?" he heard it gasp.

And Daryl wondered just how many impossible things he might encounter today.

The voice startled him, and he almost stumbled over his own foot in return. Walkers couldn't speak, and they surely wouldn't know his name, either. Then, he caught the slightest movement, and recognised a jacket much too familiar. It had been his, after all, before he'd given it to you.

The pilot groaned, and Daryl recognised that tone of voice, too. He quickly fumbled about for his pocket knife, not even stopping to consider how the hell he'd be able to cut you down.

He couldn't even comprehend how you were alive-

"How's it hanging?" the voice spluttered.

-and how you'd kept that same god awful sense of humour.

Let me know if you want to be added/removed from the tags!

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A/N I’ve tried so hard to post this, sorry for all the technical difficulties...

[ashintheairlikesnow]

AAAAAH!!! Petition for the news people to show Chris's face on tv and Akio and his mom see and come to rescueee -🦖

(follows from this piece, in what I am calling the Chris Saves Himself AU)

CW: BBU, some vaguely dehumanizing language, references to child abuse and ableism

"Mom! Aki!" Emi's voice rises loud enough to filter right up the stairs and into Akio's room, audible right through his headphones while he listens to his playlist of Tristan's favorite songs and lays in bed.

Akio sniffs, sitting up and taking the headphones off, rubbing the tear tracks off his face. It's still light outside - he never knows what time it is anymore, not since he quit gymnastics. "Emi? Did you say something?"

"Yeah, you better get down here like right now! Right now!" The urgency in her voice sets his heart to beating faster and Akio pushes himself up, taking the stairs three-steps-to-a-jump. His mother is right behind him, coming out of her own room with her book still in hand, thumb marking her place.

"Are you okay, honey?" Aimi calls out. Somehow even though she doesn't skip any steps she beats Akio to the bottom. "Em? Emi?"

"I'm fine, I swear, just-... look at the TV!"

Akio and Aimi swing into the living room, finding Emi sitting on the couch, remote in hand, groaning in frustration.

"Damn it, they just cut way from his-... hold on, let's see if they cut back before this ends. You have got to see this."

"Just what have I got to see?" Aimi asks, frowning, walking up behind Emi and absentmindedly tucking a bit of hair behind her daughter's ear. Emi sort of ducks-pulls away, rolling her eyes. "I'm almost to the bit where the ship sinks, Em."

"I know, I know, don't mess with your reading time but-... but look!"

Akio's eyes scan the TV, reading the chyron - the little moving headline at the bottom - that says MYSTERY BOY FALLS FROM BALCONY IN GOVERNOR'S MANSION - IN HOSPITAL WITH SERIOUS INJURIES - POLICE LOOKING FOR CLUES TO IDENTITY - GOV. BRANCH CLAIMS LEGAL PURCHASE FROM WRU - WRU DENIES CULPABILITY...

Talking heads banter back and forth about the seriousness of the scandal, the lack of documents to prove any kind of veracity to the governor's claims.

The anchors start interviewing a woman with short, dark red hair with a cold smile that sends a chill down Akio's spine. Karen Renford, WRU Representative to the Media, reads the little nameplate beneath her as she speaks.

"Since when do you care about politics?" Akio asks, head tilted. "This is stupid. I don't care about any of this."

"WRU sponsors your team, Aki-"

"It's not my team anymore. I'm going back to my room."

He turns to leave, but feels Emi grab at his wrist, and when he looks back her black eyes are pleading. "Please, Aki. Please. Trust me, you will want to see this."

He sighs. Everything feels too heavy to add one more thing to his days right now. But Emi is his little sister, and... "Yeah, okay." He moves around the corner of the sectional and flops himself down on it. He's put on some weight since he quit gymnastics, the waistband of his jeans digging just a little into his stomach where he used to have to wear a belt.

He doesn't care. It's... actually really nice to not have to care. He kind of likes himself better this way.

If only he didn't have to be grieving his best friend's death to get there-

"There!" Emi hisses, and her nails dig hard into Akio's forearm, hard enough for him to wince. "There, Aki, fucking look!"

"Language, young lady-" Aimi starts, and then falls silent. When she whispers, "Nantekotta..." That's when Akio looks at the screen.

Where his dead best friend is very much alive in a hospital bed.

He hears a thump and jumps, turning to see his mother's book on the floor, fallen from suddenly numb fingers as she stares unblinking at the boy on the TV screen.

Akio looks back and swallows, hard, and then swallows again. Inside him there is a sudden burst of fight between the despair and anger he's been living in and a kind of awful, horrifying hope.

"Tris?" He whispers.

"I told you!" Emi says, still holding his forearm painfully. He doesn't pull away from her - he can feel her starting to shake right alongside him. His eyes flood with hot tears and he has to blink them away to focus on the screen.

"-are speaking with the boy, who appears to be a legitimate WRU product. A simple barcode scan was performed, and police have the pet's designation, Facility number, and basic identification number." Karen Renford's voice speaks in voiceover. "However, WRU has been unable to find in our own records at the Facility any record of the boy's existence or training. WRU has strict ethical protocols surrounding the age of accepted trainees who apply, and it's increasingly clear that none of our Facilities would have taken on this individual, especially not our flagship Facility here in Berras-"

Akio hears none of this.

Instead, he hears only a rushing as loud as a waterfall filling his ears, the sound of his own blood pulsing through his veins as his breaths go shallow and gasping.

Tris is right there.

He's alive and he's right there.

He's sitting in a hospital bed, cringing back from the doctors speaking to him, looking at them with wide, terrified eyes. There are bruises around his neck like someone-... bit him, or something. His arms are bruised, wrists rubbed red in circles. He doesn't sway or rock or tap like Tristan Higgs, he sits perfectly, hauntingly still.

But it's Tris.

It's him.

"He's alive," Akio says, and his voice is strangled. "Tris is alive, he's alive, but he's-... he was-"

His mother's hand rests on his shoulder and Akio tenses at the firey rage he feels right through the tension in her fingers. "His aunt," Aimi says with a voice that cuts through bone. "His aunt told us he was dead."

"She said he-... you know... did the thing. To himself," Emi says, looking nervously sideways at Akio. "That he ran away and they found him."

"He told me she took away all his stuff and stopped giving him his meds and then she took his phone... why would she say all that if he was alive the whole time, Mom?" Akio looks back up at Aimi, and she looks back down at him.

He is terrified of her, in that moment. Scared of her the way you are scared of a bear rushing at you, knowing that you aren't much more than a matchstick in its way. But he also wants - needs - her to tell him everything is going to be fine.

Instead, she pulls her hand back off his arm and turns to leave the room. She murmurs to herself in a rapid-fire string of Japanese even Akio isn't quite keeping up with, and he jumps up to follow her, Emi on his heels.

"Mom? Mom, what are you doing? Mom, answer me-"

"Mom?"

They manage to catch up to her in the den, where she's picked up her cell phone still charging, plugged into the wall, and dialed a number.

"Mom-"

Aimi holds up one finger without looking at him, phone to her ear, and Akio's voice cuts off immediately.

"Yes, hello," She says to whoever picks up. "My name is Aimi Nakamura and I am calling about the boy found in the governor's mansion today. I believe I can tell you who he is." She pauses. "Who he really is."

Another pause.

"Yes, I'll wait."

Yet another pause. Akio and Emi stay in the doorway, staring at her in baffled confusion. Neither of them dares to speak when her face looks this way. They know better than that.

Finally, Aimi takes another breath. "Yes. Thank you. Hello, Detective... Davis. Right. My name is Aimi Nakamura." She rattles off her phone number and address when she is asked for them without hesitating. "Yes, as I said-... as I said to whoever answered the phone, I know who the boy in the governor's mansion is. I have absolutely no doubt... Yes. His real name is Tristan Paul Higgs. He was born-... oh, yes, sorry. I can slow down. His birthday is March 6th... yes. I don't know his social security number entirely but I know the last four digits were 6654... his mother and I were close friends. Veronica Botham Higgs - Ronnie. She was murdered, with her husband, it was a double-... oh, you remember? Tristan survived it. Custody went to his only surviving relative, Joanne Botham..."

Aimi swallows, and Akio feels Emi's hand seek his out and squeezes it tightly, reassuringly, as their mother's steel comes flashing to the surface underneath her usual deceptive tranquility.

"Joanne Botham works for WRU. Her nephew lost his family and was given to her. And now, more than a year after she told us he was dead, he falls out a window with a WRU barcode. I think you see where I'm going with this, detective."

Another long silence.

"Yes. I need about an hour and a half. Is that too long? Perfect."

She hangs up, and turns to look at Akio and his little sister. There is a startling brightness to her that makes Akio think she's feeling exactly what he is - grief and horror and rage and that awful swell of hope.

Maybe it really was just a horrible mistake.

Maybe he's never been dead.

Maybe he's still breathing.

"Put your shoes on," Aimi says in a flat voice. "We are going to meet Detective Davis at the hospital where Tris is."

[fangirleaconmigo]

Marbles

Geralt is hexed with a curse that takes his memory. He runs into someone he suspects is very important to him.

Geraskier hurt/comfort, happy ending, explicit. About 5k words) Now on AO3.

——------

Geralt almost choked when he saw him. One moment, he had his stein of ale up to his lips, about to take a blessed drought.

The next moment, a face appeared through the tavern doors like a wildflower sprouting up through a gray stone floor. Geralt's heart squeezed in an unexpected way.

He gulped, and the ale went down the wrong pipe. He coughed wetly, and many eyes turned to face him.

Geralt always tried to be inconspicuous. It was impossible, because people didn’t let him. People could be eating supper, gossiping, or reading the notices. But they always seemed to have a third eye keeping tabs on him. It was as though he were a rabid wolf stuffed into human clothing and they were just waiting for him to return to his natural state and claw their faces off.

One loud cough and they all turned to assess him.

The face, which belonged to a handsome man, did as well. But his reaction to Geralt was entirely unexpected. His eyes opened wide. They were blue, and even from where he sat, Geralt could see they were rimmed with heavy black lashes.

As recognition dawned in them, they occluded with emotions so raw that Geralt startled backwards. People didn’t walk around in public with emotions that raw. They kept them behind closed doors. It was a festering wound of hurt so vivid, that for that moment, the man hadn’t been self-aware.

Geralt’s armor creaked in complaint as he jerked to sit up straighter in his chair.

He took a deep breath. This man obviously knew him. Frankly, that surprised Geralt. He was so handsome. He wore the finest clothing. There was a lute hung over his shoulder. Geralt tried to think of a reason that someone so refined or fashionable would be friends with a witcher.

But only people you care about can deal the kind of wound that puts that sort of expression on a face. So they were something to each other.

As the man walked through the crowd, people slapped his shoulder and asked for a song.

He was famous too, on top of everything else. And he made his way towards Geralt. The witcher watched him approach and steeled himself for disappointment.

Ever since his memory loss, he’d had to deal with people approaching him and expecting him to know them back.

It always ended poorly.

So few people reached out to him, that when someone did, and he couldn’t reach back, it was distressing. He felt like a rusty stuck lock that snapped off every key.

They always left.

He didn’t miss any individual one of them exactly. But watching them leave always sunk Geralt deeper into an abysmal loneliness he couldn’t name.

Each former acquaintance was a tiny pinpoint of light connecting him to humanity, and they winked out, one by one.

Geralt studied the man carefully, preparing as best he could. But it didn’t help. A mask of cool indifference had been pulled down over the raw emotions Geralt had glimpsed only seconds before.

Soon, the man stood before Geralt, his long elegant fingers resting on the back of a chair. He was tall and lean. He wore a fashionable doublet open at his neck. Pendants hung down in the open neckline, swinging against a thicket of black chest hair. He licked his lips.

Geralt grew warm.

The man stood, shoulders bunched, like he was standing on the precipice of a cliff.

“Hello, Geralt,” he said, holding his voice carefully. “What are you doing in Oxenfurt?”

This was the hardest part. Admitting that whatever well of emotions he provoked, however many intimate moments they had shared, he couldn’t return them. He decided to ignore the question and get right to the reveal. He decided to just rip the bandage off.

“Please tell me your name, sir. I…I’m having trouble with my memory.” He didn’t normally call people sir. Why had he done that? It was some artifice meant to relay his premature guilt.

The man looked at him blankly. Geralt noticed that even though his mouth was pressed into a haughty line, his fingers fiddled furiously at his side.

“Sorry?” he asked. “Come again?”

Geralt shifted in his seat. “I don’t... know your name. Please remind me.”

The man’s face ignited in rage and disbelief. The festering wound from before was now freshly slashed and bleeding.

“Do you think this is funny, Geralt? After twenty years of friendship? Fuck you,” he spat, and his hands clenched into fists, his rings grinding against one another.

Geralt flinched.

The man spun to leave, but Geralt stumbled up desperately, hand darting out to wrap around the man’s wrist. The man turned and stared down at where Geralt held him. Geralt did too. They both seemed equally shocked by his actions.

“Please, please, please,” begged Geralt. It was a soft chant. He allowed his own pain to slip out, to appear in his features. “This isn’t a joke. Please. Sit. Don’t go. Let me explain.”

He had never sounded more desperate. That he could remember.

A symphony of emotions played in the man’s face. “Alright.” He gingerly detached his wrist and warily lowered himself into the chair opposite Geralt. “Go ahead.”

Geralt settled back onto the bench and clasped his hands together on the table. “Thank you.”

“For what?” The man crossed his arms and squeezed them together, protecting his chest.

“For giving me a chance to explain.”

The man snorted dismissively. “Please. You know I never could deny you anything.”

This further reinforced Geralt’s belief that this man was important to him. No other acquaintance or friend had used this kind of language.

Were they lovers?

His own mind surprised him by retorting please let us be lovers. It was too much to hope for, he knew.

“Really? You couldn’t?” asked Geralt.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Lovely Man, as Geralt now thought of him, now that he hoped they had been lovers, looked as though Geralt had slapped him across the face. His face flushed pink.

“I’m not letting you torture me like this.” He leaned forward as though determined to leave this time.

“I’ve been hexed,” Geralt said, loud and quick.

Lovely Man sat back into the chair with a thunk, looking mystified. “How?”

“I have amnesia. For all I know, it’s permanent,” said Geralt. His words tumbled over one another in haste, almost becoming one continuous words. “I’ve lost all of my memories. No one has been able to take it off. It’s true.”

Lovely Man’s lips parted in shock. He tried to begin at least five different sentences that came to a halt, before he grew silent. Geralt remained silent as well. He was also used to this moment. The moment of shock. People who are in the midst of the moment of shock cannot take in anything else you say to them.

“Are you serious?” he finally said. “All of them? You really don’t...know me?”

“I am deadly serious.” Geralt fumbled in his pocket. “I think it was a mage I pissed off. Here. I have proof.” He pulled out a page full of notes and handed it over.

The man smoothed the parchment out on the table. It was filled with Vesemir’s careful handwriting. It was a list of names and explanations of people important to Geralt. The man’s eyes drifted down, lips moving, reading the list.

This new reality was still slotting into place as he read.

Triss. Sorceress. Friend. Ten years.

Nenneke. Priestess of Melitele. Friend. Fifty years.

Stregobor. Mage. Dodgy prick. His entire life.

He sat back and looked at Geralt, still drawing his thoughts together.

“Are you on there?” asked Geralt.

The man tapped his finger on the fourth name.

Jaskier. Best friend. Twenty years.

“That’s me.” His voice sounded thick. A different kind of grief joined whatever had been there before.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, trying out the name. It sounded right. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier looked stricken. It would take all night for him to process this at least. Weeks. Months. It was different with each person. But every drop of defensiveness and hostility had melted away.

“Geralt, what happened? Are you alright? Were you harmed? Please tell me.” He leaned forward and his hand shot out as though he meant to touch Geralt’s hand. Then he jerked it back, as though he had remembered something else.

Why had he yanked back? Geralt could use a friendly touch. He was starting to realize that in the life of a witcher, touch came rarely and was usually in the form of a punch.

Geralt sat back in his chair. He scratched his head. “I woke up in a barn. I couldn’t remember who I was.”

“How did you make it home?” Jaskier nodded at the paper, the clear evidence that he had made it back to Kaer Morhen at some point.

“I was close to the Keep when it happened. Eskel got me home safe.”

“Well, thank the gods for Eskel.” The rush of relief and affection in Jaskier’s voice settled Geralt’s tension.

They may have had their differences, but Jaskier obviously still cared for him. He still needed him to be safe and unharmed.

“Indeed,” said Geralt.

“Geralt, that could have gone poorly.” Jaskier leveled a meaningful look at him. “You, out there, practically defenseless.”

“I know that now.” His eyes surveyed the tavern. “Seems I have a lot of enemies.”

Jaskier snorted and sat back. He crossed one leg over the other. “Enemies implies reason or conflict, Geralt. You don't have enemies. You are beset by bigots and morons.”

He said bigots and morons in a much louder voice, flourishing with his hands to emphasize the taunts. People who had been sneaking glances at Geralt quickly turned their eyes to their own business. Jaskier seemed like he was starting to relax, just a little. Perhaps insulting people on Geralt’s behalf was soothing for him.

Geralt chuckled at the thought and smiled wide. His chest loosened.

Jaskier blinked. He looked as though he was seeing something that surprised him.

“What?” asked Geralt. He patted his chest and face to see if he had dropped food on himself.

“Nothing. Just...I like it when you do that.”

“What?”

“Smile.” When he said it, he locked eyes with Geralt. He didn’t look away. That warm feeling returned.

Jaskier swiftly changed the subject. “But Geralt...” One chestnut tendril flopped down on his face and he blew it away. “Why did Vesemir let you out on the path by yourself? I don’t think this is safe. You without your memories.”

Fuck.

Why did Geralt want to slide that stupid floppy lock of hair behind his ear? The list Vesemir made read best friend. But everything in his heart was screaming lover. Perhaps Vesemir hadn’t known. Perhaps the previous version of Geralt had been extremely private.

“Well,” Geralt said, keeping his hands tightly clasped to prevent them from straying, “my body remembers everything that it can do. I can read. I can use my sword. I can fight just the same. I just don’t have knowledge. Just feelings.”

“But still. People can take advantage of you. I don’t like it. I don’t like seeing you out alone like this.”

The kindness in his voice was soothing. But something in Geralt was not being soothed. The parchment sat on the table taunting him.

Best Friend.

“I owe you an apology,” Geralt said softly.

Jaskier chewed on his lip in silence, examining the table. He was back on the precipice. Tension in his neck made the cords stand out. “Why?” he asked. The words trembled despite his obvious herculean efforts.

“As soon as I heard your voice,” explained Geralt, “I felt this pang of guilt. And you looked upset when you first saw me. So... I know I did something to you.”

Jaskier simply stared at him. “That is the second time you’ve said that.”

“Said what?”

“That you feel something.”

“Don’t I usually feel things?” Geralt knew by now that the legends said witchers didn’t feel. But he hadn’t actually met anyone who knew him and believed that.

“Well, yes, quite a lot of things. But you don’t normally acknowledge them openly.”

“Ah. Yes. Well. It is how I survive now,” he explained. He could explain this. This was a part of his preparations to return to the outside world. “It’s something Vesemir taught me. My knowledge may be gone. But my body remembers. And if I am to survive, I have to listen to it. If I see someone and I feel uneasy, they are untrustworthy. If I feel fear, they are dangerous. My body learned a lesson at some point. And just because I can’t remember the lesson, doesn’t mean it can’t still guide me.”

Jaskier nodded slowly. “That makes sense. And you feel guilt? When you look at me?”

“Among other things.” He rubbed his hands unconsciously down his legs under the table. “Can you tell me what I did?” Geralt sounded forlorn, even to his own ears.

“Oh, Geralt,” said Jaskier. He scrubbed his hands over his own eyes. He seemed just tired now. “You don’t need to know. Look at you. You’re a frightened, overgrown puppy. You don’t need those details. You were just a bit of a dick, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Accepted. Given the circumstances, I’m just relieved you’re safe and whole.”

His compassion for Geralt was obvious. Clear as a bell. He was a gift. Jaskier seemed to be the only thing standing between him and a lonely, hostile world. How in the everlasting fuck had he ever let this man go?

He cleared his throat. “So, Jaskier, can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course, Geralt. Anything.”

Geralt inhaled slowly, trying to think of a good way to ask his question. He watched his own hands, as he gathered his thoughts. He idly scratched at a sore on his palm. He flinched in surprise when a warm hand closed over them.

“Stop that. You’ll infect it.”

Jaskier withdrew his hand again, and watched Geralt patiently. Geralt’s eyes stung. He blinked furiously until reaching the safety of composure again. “Can you give me back… some of my memories? Tell me some stories? Of the good times?”

Jaskier smiled freely for the first time that night. “I’d be glad to, my friend.”

Geralt urged him to move across the table. He smiled inwardly when Jaskier accepted, and settled next to him on the bench.

His close proximity and easy intimacy eased the hollow loneliness. Geralt had insisted on leaving Kaer Morhen, despite Vesemir’s misgivings. And ultimately he still made his own decisions. Geralt had simply known there was something out here that he had to find.

Right now, it felt like that something had been Jaskier.

With the smells and sounds of the tavern playing out around them, they huddled together on the bench, and built their own world.

They ordered dinner, and picked steamy chunks of meat from the same stew. Jaskier pulled out his sheets of poetry and gave Geralt dramatic readings. He sang softly to Geralt to remind him of the notes of his favorite songs. He had the sweetest, barest voice Geralt had heard. It was like damp soil after the rain. The sound of it tugged at Geralt. He realized that he wanted to cup Jaskier’s face and kiss him.

Did Jaskier want that?

Jaskier certainly looked back at him admiringly. He certainly shivered when their hands brushed.

He also took great glee in recounting their memories. His eyes lit up like candles and his hands waved in frantic loops as he told story after story. Geralt watched his expressive fingers and wondered if they had ever touched him and how.

Jaskier told Geralt about drinking the night away at the Temple of Melitele. He vividly described their petty arguments. He described the jokes they told during raucous games of Gwent. He stood and acted out certain parts for effect and they laughed hysterically.

He related how once they had been thrown in the stocks together for a full afternoon because they’d been caught releasing a baby dragon from an enclosure where it was being held like a zoo animal.

As Jaskier spoke, Geralt was spellbound. He inwardly enthused about the crinkling of Jaskier’s face as he laughed at his own jokes and swam around in the sparkle in his eyes when he told of narrow escapes. Every syllable was a tonic. Every note, a blessed salve on his loneliness. He laughed, deep and cleansing.

Twenty years of friendship floated in front of Geralt. He was getting a part of himself back, he could feel it. It was like puzzle pieces slotting into place. He was becoming whole.

As the night wore on, he drifted towards Jaskier. When he reached for a piece of bread, he leaned in more than he strictly needed to. When Jaskier returned to his seat, after going to order another round, Geralt was an inch or two closer.

He rationalized it. Jaskier leaned towards him like a flower towards the early rays of the sun. He wanted Geralt. And he was so beautiful.

“So then,” said Jaskier, gulping his ale and turning back towards Geralt. “I was so furious that he cheated you of your pay, that I found a mage in town to hex him.”

“The alderman?” asked Geralt, disbelieving. “You got someone to hex him?” He wiped the tears of mirth already streaming out of his eyes. “Wasn’t your lurid song about him enough?”

“No!! He wouldn’t pay you and I was enraged. You told me to forget about it but, of course, I ignored you and did exactly what I wanted.”

Geralt could definitely see that. “What did the hex do?”

“He was a pig farmer. He raised pigs for slaughter.” Jaskier paused for effect.

“And?” asked Geralt.

“So I had her hex him so that whenever he heard his pigs snort, he would hear a word in English.”

“What word?” demanded Geralt, eyes wide.

“Murderer.” Jaskier cackled like a wicked witch from stories and slapped his own leg.

Geralt doubled over on the table, laughing into his ale. “What happened to him?”

“The alderman?” Jaskier paused again for effect. He took every single story he told as seriously as if he were on a stage. “He now runs a humane pig rescue. So he did alright for himself.”

They were warm and loose with drink and laughing riotously. Jaskier drew so close to Geralt that the witcher literally tingled with longing. Geralt could feel the warmth of his breath. The slight scent of ale. His eyes dropped to Jaskier’s lips. They looked plush and soft. And when Jaskier took a pause in a story, he would hitch up one side of his top lip in a way that Geralt found extremely endearing.

They were expressive, just like his eyes. Just like his hands. They were so alive. He was so alive. And against all odds, Geralt was still alive.

“All is well that ends well,” finished Jaskier triumphantly.

And Geralt kissed him.

It was a small, sweet kiss. He brought one hand up to caress his jaw. The warmth that had been growing in him flooded everything. It was comfort. Provocation. Love.

Jaskier froze.

Geralt pulled back, fear stealing over him.

Jaskier pulled his fingers up to his own lips, and stared in shock at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Geralt stammered. “Fuck. Please. Was that a mistake? I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to.”

Jaskier’s mouth fell open. Nothing but an airy squeak escaped his lips. The raw, skinless emotions from when Jaskier had first walked into the tavern blazed back into his eyes.

A sick panic stirred in Geralt. This man would leave him too. It was why, despite what Geralt had said to Vesemir, he didn’t feel safe. Yes, he could defend himself. But he didn’t have a connection to the world out here, outside of Kaer Morhen. And a man with no connections to the world, a man who everyone leaves behind, cannot feel safe, ever.

People aren’t meant to be alone. He wasn’t meant to be alone. He was meant to have Jaskier at his side. He didn’t know anything else, but he felt this. He fucking felt it.

“Please. I understand if you want to go. But please don’t leave.” Geralt was desperate. He had few memories left, other than the ones that other people gave him. And he had no pride left at all.

“Why did you do that, Geralt?” said Jaskier. His fingers trembled where he touched his lips. Hurt and fear played on his face. He had just been laughing, and Geralt had ruined it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Geralt. Tell me why you did it,” he demanded, heat creeping into his voice. “Now!”

“Because,” Geralt ran his hands through his hair, “because. Because I felt like it.”

Jaskier’s hands dropped into his lap. “You felt like it.” He was on edge. Brittle. “You felt like it.” He repeated it, in a daze. He chuckled deliriously. “He felt like it.” He said it more to himself the last time.

“Yes. Jaskier...” he searched for words, “I have these feelings when I see you.” He turned his body and took Jaskier’s face in his hands. “I’m sure that I love you.”

Jaskier jerked his head back, pulling it free of Geralt’s hands. Hot tears silently sprung from his eyes, streaking down his cheeks.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck. No. I’m sorry—“ Geralt began.

“No... You... Don’t...” Jaskier breathed each word out slowly, in succession. “No, you don’t, Geralt. I feel that way about you. You don’t feel that way about me.”

He placed a hand, fingers splayed, on Geralt’s chest. It was a motion meant to hold him at bay. Geralt brought up his own hand, clapping it over his. He squeezed Jaskier’s fingers harder than he meant to. Jaskier was shaking, but crucially, he didn’t pull away.

“You,” Geralt said, “feel that way about me?” His panic was receding. Joy was replacing it, despite the fact that Jaskier was still stormy and confused. If Jaskier loved him, they could work it out. He wouldn’t leave. Perhaps it was selfish, but the thought soothed Geralt.

“Yes!” Jaskier almost shouted. “You know that! I know you do!” His shoulders were bunched again. His eyes blazed.

“I don’t,” said Geralt, anguished. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. If I knew it, I don’t anymore.”

Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek, his emotions warring with one another. His desire to defend himself slammed into his need to comfort Geralt in the face of his evident fear and anguish.

Jaskier swiped his sleeve angrily across one check and then the other. “Geralt, I’ve loved you for twenty fucking years. I swear to the gods, if this is a joke, it is the cruelest one ever invented. Too cruel for you. If you’re playing with me, I will never forgive you. I will go to my grave cursing your name.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt begged. “Please. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Geralt, the last time we saw each other, you told me that I was a burden and to get out of your life.”

Geralt sat back hard. He was stuttering now. His hand was growing sweaty but he refused to let Jaskier loose. “Why would I do that? Did you betray or harm me?”

“No!!” Jaskier exclaimed. “I would never! You were upset and, apparently, to a poor, misguided soul, I can be really fucking annoying. I assumed you’d find me right away and we’d make up. But you never looked for me and I thought you hated me—“

“I don’t!” Geralt cut him off. “Jaskier, I don’t know what I was thinking or what I believed. But I know how I feel. It’s the only godsdamn thing left. All the other shit is cleared out, but this is real. I didn’t look for you, because I lost all my memories. And I don’t hate you. I would know it if I hated you.”

Jaskier fell silent again, sniffling. Once he thought Jaskier wouldn’t bolt away, Geralt released his hand. He handed Jaskier a napkin, and he proceeded to blow his nose loudly.

“I don’t know what to do with this, Geralt.” His voice sounded small.

Geralt took his hands again. “I know what you can do. I have a room for the night. You could come up with me.”

Jaskier looked dubious.

“We don’t have to do anything. I just…can I hold you?”

Jaskier kept looking stunned...like he’d been struck by a lightning bolt. He blinked and shook his head. Then he pulled his hands away only to grab his mug and chug the rest of it.

Jaskier wiped the foam from his lips. A little bit flew free and stuck on his nose.

“Geralt, you didn’t want me then. I don’t want to take advantage of you, now that you’ve lost your marbles.”

Geralt leaned in and swiped the foam off of his nose with a finger. He failed at suppressing a soft smile.

“Jaskier,” he said. “I may not have all of my memories. But don’t I deserve to decide what I do with my own body? Every person does. Aren’t I still a person?”

Jaskier’s mouth popped open again. He searched for a reply for a moment. “Well, yes. Of course you do. Of course you are,” he finally said.

He stared into the middle distance again. Geralt could see his gears turning.

Geralt was so close now. So close to having Jaskier in his arms. He had to lay it all on the table.

“I need you.”

He said those three words quietly, with only a small crack in the center. That act of tearing away his defenses almost made him lose his composure. But he didn’t. He held it together and he watched Jaskier.

The dam broke.

——-

Geralt led Jaskier upstairs by the hand. They changed into night clothes in relative silence, ears ringing from the noise of the tavern. Jaskier and Geralt climbed together into bed.

Geralt took him into his arms. He wrapped him tight, squeezing him until he could feel Jaskier’s heart thud against his own.

According to Jaskier, they had shared a bed many times, but Geralt had never gathered him into his arms like this. As he settled in, toasty and soothed, he could not fathom why he hadn’t.

They didn’t say much. But after long moments of comfortable silence, Jaskier pulled up his head from where it lay on Geralt’s chest. His lips glistened in the moonlight. His eyes were full of longing. It was permission.

So Geralt kissed him and swallowed his sighs.

They touched each other and kissed softly, as the moon rose and the crickets began their nightly song.

They left the window open so that the sea breeze could cool their skin. Jaskier fell asleep softly snoring and drooling against Geralt’s chest. Geralt fell asleep soon after, leg slung over Jaskier, chest rising and falling against him.

Sometime, just before sunrise, Geralt woke with a wriggling, urgent feeling in his groin. He was molded against Jaskier, with his cock aching and pressed to the small of his back.

Geralt debated whether to wake him, but came to a decision fairly quickly. He decided that tomorrow was not promised to him. He decided that, in the dark cover of night and with Jaskier so trusting and close, perhaps they could be brave.

So he leaned in even closer to Jaskier, and pressed firm, sensual kisses to the bare back of his neck. He dragged his fingers up Jaskier’s thighs and squeezed his hips. Everywhere he touched, goosebumps prickled on Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier whimpered. He squirmed and arched his back, further igniting Geralt’s need.

Geralt slipped his fingers under Jaskier’s nightshirt, dragging them up the warm, soft, furry planes of his stomach.

“Jaskier?” he whispered.

“Uuughhh-“ Jaskier made sweet, breathy grunting noises. He rolled his ass higher. Geralt’s cock ground into the crease of it.

“Geralt,” he uttered. “Oh, Geralt.”

Geralt wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, his lips in Jaskier’s ear. “I want to be inside you,” he whispered. “Do you want that?”

The sheets rustled and a soft breeze lifted a few wisps from Jaskier’s forehead.

He answered thick and husky, words slurred with sleep. “But... What if... you get your memories back... and you leave me?”

He sounded defenseless. Forlorn. Innocent. Geralt had yet to hear him sound like this.

“That’ll never happen. I’ll never let go of you again. Ever. And if it did mean that I would lose you, I would never take my memories back.” He was heated. He was sure. “But that’s not what it would mean.”

“I can’t take that kind of risk.”

Those were the words Jaskier said. But it was a charade, and they both knew it. It was a plea for the barest reassurance. He had already decided to let Geralt in.

“I will keep you safe. Don’t I always keep you safe?” Geralt followed his words with a kiss to Jaskier’s ear, and the slide of his hands down to his hips.

Jaskier swallowed shakily and nodded his head. “You do, Geralt. You do.”

The sound of his quiet voice died out. Next came the rustling of fabric.

Geralt stripped Jaskier of everything. Jaskier gasped as the night air hit his skin and he squirmed under Geralt’s gaze. Geralt had never been happier for his enhanced vision, because even in the dark, every plane, every dimple, every thatch of hair was accessible to his eager eyes. He allowed Geralt to spread him out naked. To run his hands along every line of his body. To press his knees into the mattress. To explore every single part of him with his tongue and his fingers.

He was sleepy. Sweet. Pliant.

He moaned softly into the pillow when Geralt rolled him over and pried him open. He squeaked rhythmically and pushed back against Geralt’s fingers as he opened him up, slick and greedy for him. The sounds of squelching and Jaskier whimpering were the only sounds in the room.

Geralt kissed him and entered him with a cathartic groan. He slid gently at first, petting Jaskier as he pressed into him. Listening to his sounds, letting the guide him. And when Jaskier was open and greedy and desperate, Geralt fucked him into the mattress, his unmoored noises floating out the open window.

Geralt came into him, taking everything he wanted, and giving everything he had. He sucked Jaskier greedily, noisily, until he came too, calling Geralt’s name, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Geralt gentled him then. Stroked his hair. Whispered every word he could think of to settle him.

You were so good for me. You felt fantastic. I love you.

They fell back into a heavy, sated sleep.

—-

It was late morning, and the sun was already high in the sky when Geralt awoke in an empty bed. He slapped the pillow next to him. Fear clawed at his throat for a short moment before the door creaked open and Jaskier walked in.

He was wrapped in a robe. His bright eyes were bleary, and his hair stood on end. He carried a pitcher, and two mugs dangled from his fingers by their handles.

“I thought you’d left me.” Those were the only words Geralt could say. So he said them. Then he was silent.

Jaskier sighed and tilted his head, looking at Geralt fondly, but reproachfully. He laid down the pitcher and mugs. He pulled open the curtains. Geralt hissed and squinted. Then Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed, trailing a hand down the dip of Geralt’s sides.

“I know you can’t remember, so I will tell you.”

Geralt nodded gratefully and rubbed sleep from his eyes. He propped himself up on one elbow.

Jaskier took Geralt’s chin and tilted his head up to meet his gaze. “I don’t leave you, Geralt. That’s not how this works.” He spoke slowly and gently, like one does to a child who doesn’t know why they can’t run into the street in front of a stallion. “It has always been me and you. It will always be me and you. For as long as you want me, I am here.”

“I do want you,” he responded.

Jaskier winked at him. “Excellent decision, witcher.”

Geralt pulled him back into bed. They spent the rest of the day becoming reacquainted with one another, and learning many new things as well. Geralt learned that ‘at his side’ was quite literal, as Jaskier laid out his plans to join him once again on the path.

“I wouldn’t let you out here like a skittish fawn without your memories, with no one to protect you.”

Geralt knew of two swords that protected him just fine.

But he knew what Jaskier meant.

He also knew that his suspicion, down in the tavern, that Jaskier was the reason he had needed to leave Kaer Morhen, was true. He had argued with Vesemir, and at first it had been daunting leaving the safety of the Keep so soon. But following his instincts had once again, been correct. Geralt had found his anchor. His connective tissue. He would never be alone again.

He was finally safe.

And whatever the future held with his old memories, they would face it together.

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The End.

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Thanks for reading xoxo